A Phule and His Money by Robert Asprin with Peter J. Heck 
Copyright 1999 
 
 
 1 
Journal #278 
 

Even the most fortunate circumstances contain the seeds of their own 

destruction. So it was with the tenure of Phule's Company on Lorelei. 
 

At first glance, a posh gambling resort like Lorelei would appear a plum 

assignment for a Space Legion company that until recently had been the 
laughingstock of the Legion. Omega Company had long been the Legion's 
dumping ground for incompetents and malcontents. My employer, Willard Phule (or 
"Captain Jester, " to use his Legion name) was given command of Omega 
Company as punishment for a small indiscretion of his own, namely ordering a 
peace conference strafed. He was lucky-only his status as a wealthy munitions heir 
kept him from being expelled outright. The generals meant to so overload him with 
frustration and embarrassment that he would resign. A spoiled rich kid could find 
plenty of more pleasant ways to misspend his youth, they thought. 
 

Instead he had decided to make the company the best in the Legion, and by 

applying unorthodox methods had come a long way toward that goal. But he had 
powerful enemies, and Lorelei appeared a perfect trap for the unwary. Dominated 
by gangsters, and given over to every sort of sybaritic entertainment, it would have 
destroyed most military units. That Phule's company had succeeded beyond all 
hopes confounded those enemies-but they were determined to find new ways to 
destroy him. 
 

Now, the company was about to receive new troops-the first significant 

additions to its ranks since he took command. In such a tight-knit unit, any change 
of personnel has an impact. When the new troops have been selected by one's 
enemies, the impact is likely to be disastrous... 
 
"They'll be docking any minute, now," said Phule, consulting his chronometer. It 
was the third time he'd checked it in the last five minutes. Since there were 
numerous time displays on view throughout the space station's arrival lounge, an 
observer might have concluded that Phule's preoccupation with the time-combined 
with his pacing and nonstop talking-was a sign of nervousness. That observer 
would have been right. 
 

"A few minutes one way or the other won't make much difference, Captain," 

said Sergeant Brandy, who had come with her commanding officer to greet the 
new troops assigned to Phule's Company. "They're coming, and we'll deal with it. 
All of us will. I've been through this enough times before." 
 

"Oh, I know you have," said Phule, nodding appreciatively to his top 

sergeant. "And I know you'll do everything you can to make them fit in smoothly. 
I've seen what you can do, Brandy. But this isn't just any new batch of recruits. It's 
a completely unique situation." 

 

"You mean the Gambolts, sir?" said Lieutenant Armstrong, the third in the 

greeting party. He stood ramrod straight, almost managing to look comfortable 
despite the exaggerated precision of his uniform and posture. "I don't see where 
they'll be a problem. They're among the finest fighters in the galaxy. It's an honor to 
have them in our unit." 
 

"Yes, I appreciate that," said Phule. "But Gambolts have never served in 

mixed units with humans before-and these three specifically requested to be 
assigned to us. It's a tribute to the good work we've done. But I can't help 
wondering..." His voice trailed off. 
 

Brandy shook her head firmly. "Whether the troops will accept them? Don't 

worry about that, Captain. This outfit may be the most tolerant bunch in the Legion. 
When you've had to live down the reputation we've been saddled with, you don't 
have room to get snooty about your barracksmates." 
 

"Losers can't be choosers, in other words," said Phule. "I suppose that's 

been true in the past. Most of the companies have had to accept whatever hand 
the Legion dealt them. But we've been changing that." 
 

"You've been changing that, sir," said Lieutenant Armstrong. "If not for you, 

we'd still be back on Haskin's Planet, slogging through the swamps. Now we're 
among the elite companies of the Legion-all thanks to your efforts." 
 

"I can't take all the credit," said Phule. "It's been a team effort, and every 

member has contributed. That's why I'm anxious about the new troops, to tell you 
the truth. The Gambolts have always had their own elite unit in the Regular Army. 
Now three of them are coming to us-and I have to wonder why. Will they fit into the 
team? Will they hold themselves apart from the rest of the unit? Will they..." 
 

Whatever he was about to say was interrupted by the blare of a klaxon and 

a red-lit sign flashing on and off by the arrival door. The sign now read, SHUTTLE 
DOCKING: PREPARE FOR DEBARKING PASSENGERS. Phule and his 
subordinates turned to face the door. Some of their questions were about to be 
answered. 
 
One advantage of building a casino on a space station is that it can be a true 
twenty-four hour operation. With no local cycle of day and night, there is no need 
for visitors to adjust to the local clock, or to go through what in prespace days used 
to be called "jet lag". So the Fat Chance Casino was likely to have an eager crowd 
of gamblers at any hour. This, in turn, meant that Phule's Company had to be alert 
for trouble at any hour. 
 

But Moustache, who was in charge of "daytime" security at the casino, 

wasn't expecting any real trouble. The tall noncom with a balding head and a bright 
red moustache sat at the bar sipping a brisk "cuppa" tea, scanning the early 
afternoon crowd with detached interest. He knew he wouldn't spot everything-it 
wasn't really his job, after all. Other members of the Omega Mob, disguised as 
waiters, croupiers, or fellow customers, mingled with the crowd, probing for the 
myriad signs that someone was trying to cheat. Behind the elegant-looking facade, 
other vigilant eyes performed the same task, aided by state-of-the-art surveillance 

equipment. 
 

Of course, since the showdown with Maxine Pruett's hoodlums, there had 

been less trouble. Word had quickly gone out on the gamblers' grapevine to forget 
about trying to beat the Fat Chance. Still, there was always a handful of small-time 
grifters who thought they could outsmart the house security staff. Most of these 
were quickly spotted and quietly removed from the casino floor to a private lounge 
to await deportation on the next ship off-station. It was all handled very 
professionally-and unsuccessful grifters usually accepted their fate with a stoical 
shrug. After all, it was one of the risks of doing business. 
 

So it came as a surprise when a voice spoke quietly in Moustache's 

earphone. It was Rose-"Mother" to the company-the voice of Comm Central, the 
vital glue that bound the company together. "Wake up, you old buzzard," she said 
teasingly. "We're about to get some rough trade. I know you senior citizens need 
your afternoon naps, but it'd be a shame for you to doze through the 
entertainment." 
 

"Where?" said Moustache, instantly alert. He spoke under his breath, 

knowing that the super-sensitive directional microphone on his wrist communicator 
could pick up a whisper inaudible to someone at the next table. 
 

"Blackjack tables, darlin'," said Mother. "We've got a mom-and-pop team 

palming and passing cards at Number Five. I've already tipped the dealer, and 
she's stalling." 
 

"Good," said Moustache, standing up from the bar. "Who's covering that 

sector?" 
 

"The dealer's a civilian employee. Her orders are to stay clear if trouble 

starts and let security handle it. We've got a couple of actors playing legionnaire 
stationed around the room, and they may be all we really need. But Gabriel's on 
the nearest exit in case they try to run. And if he needs help, we've got Sushi and 
Do-Wop undercover in that area-they're already closing in on Number Five. You 
might dodder over, yourself, grandpa just to see how it all comes out. The grifters 
might accept you as a father figure." 
 

"Well, Mother, perhaps I'll introduce them to you, as well," said Moustache, 

smiling to himself. Of course he wouldn't follow through on that threat; there was no 
reason to let anyone know how thoroughly the gambling tables were monitored. It 
might inhibit the free-spending attitude the casino wanted to encourage in its 
legitimate customers. And to give professional gamblers a behind-the-scenes look 
at security might give them ideas how to beat it. 
 

Moustache had perfected the art of moving quickly without appearing to be 

in any particular hurry. If a noncom looked flustered or rushed, the troops might 
decide there was something for them to worry about. Moustache had been a 
career noncom in the Regular Army before forced retirement made him join the 
Space Legion. His crisp military bearing and his carefully polished "British 
Sergeant-Major" air made him the perfect front man for Phule's undercover 
surveillance operation in the Fat Chance. While all eyes were on him and his troop 
of uniformed actors (with a salting of genuine legionnaires to handle any rough 

stuff), the real security team could work unobserved, ready to respond to any threat 
before the opposition was aware of them. 
 

That was exactly what was happening as Moustache rounded a bank of 

quantum slot machines and entered the blackjack area of the casino. Do-Wop had 
slouched into a vacant seat at table number five, within an arm's length of a pudgy 
gray-haired man wearing a well-broken-in business suit over a brightly colored 
shirt. Beside him sat a woman of similar age, in a slightly too-tight dress and a too-
elaborate, blatantly dyed hairdo. A travelling salesman on vacation with his wife, or 
so it appeared at first glance. But if Mother was correct-and she probably was-the 
outfits were sheep's clothing, camouflage to make a team of card cheats look like 
innocent tourists. At the far end of the table stood Sushi, looking for all the world as 
if he were trying to decide how the cards were running at this table before sitting 
down to play. 
 

The dealer glanced up as Moustache came into view, and he winked at her. 

It was time to put an end to this incident. He stepped forward and put a hand lightly 
on the man's shoulder. "Excuse me, sir," he said. His voice was very polite but 
carried an unmistakable stamp of authority. 
 

The man glanced over his shoulder, barely long enough for him to register 

much more than Moustache's black Legion uniform. What happened next took 
everyone by surprise. Both the man and the woman abruptly shoved back their 
chairs, knocking Moustache off balance. In the split second before he could 
recover, the woman had spun around and begun to throw punches, concentrating 
on his midsection-which, given the difference in their heights, was her most 
convenient target. 
 

The woman was stronger than Moustache had expected. He had to call on 

all his training to fight off the middle-aged tourist. Using his superior reach, he 
grabbed the chair she had vacated and shoved her back against the table with it, 
trying to keep her pinned out of lethal range. Do-Wop was already stepping forward 
to help subdue her, and there were black-uniformed figures closing in from a 
distance, so all Moustache had to do was keep her at bay and hope the man didn't 
come to her assistance. With luck, he'd have nothing more serious than bruises to 
show for this episode. 
 

But the woman's companion had ideas of his own. Instead of helping her 

break free, he leaped up on the table and launched himself in a flying kick at Sushi. 
 

Sushi had held back from the altercation, ready to cut off either of the pair 

who tried to escape. So while he was caught by surprise, his reflexes and training 
got him out of trouble. Instead of trying to duck under the kick, he leaned backward 
enough to make the attacker's flailing feet miss him, then gave the flying body a 
hard shove in the ribs as it went past, trying to spoil the attacker's balance. To that 
extent Sushi succeeded, and the tourist landed ignominiously on a chair that 
toppled with a loud crack as the back legs gave way. 
 

But the shove transferred enough momentum to Sushi to knock him off 

balance, as well. He spun around, bounced off the table behind him, and landed on 
hands and knees on the floor a short distance from his assailant. Almost at once, 

he sprang up, ready for action. Sushi expected the man to be halfway to the exit, or 
more likely, lying dazed on the floor. Instead, he was surprised to find the man 
already in a compact fighting stance. That made no sense at all. The man must 
have known he was surrounded by the legionnaires. If he wasn't going to try to 
escape, he should have given up quietly as soon as his cheating was discovered. 
Unless... 
 

Sushi looked more closely at his opponent. Under the baggy suit and 

graying hair-which upon closer inspection appeared to have been dyed-was a man 
close to his prime, solidly built and obviously trained in the martial arts. His facial 
features showed Asian ancestry. Suddenly Sushi understood. 
 

Sushi rose to his feet and bowed slowly. "I have been expecting you," he 

said to the man. He kept his voice low, speaking in Japanese. "We have business 
to tend to, but we should not discuss it in front of outsiders." 
 

The other man snarled. "My family does not dicker with impostors. Our only 

business today is your death." 
 

"Do not judge too quickly," said Sushi. "Look!" He made a surreptitious 

motion with his left hand and then dropped both arms to his sides, leaving himself 
open to the other man's attack. 
 

The other man's face changed in an instant, and he, too, adopted a more 

relaxed stance. "Ah! I did not know! Perhaps there is something to discuss after all. 
But you are right-outsiders should not hear what we have to say, though I think 
there are few here who would understand us." 
 

"One moment, please," said Sushi. "I will tell the others you have 

surrendered to me for questioning, and then we will go someplace where we may 
talk freely. They will not question me because they believe I am loyal to their 
captain. Your woman will be taken to a safe place and not harmed, and you may 
retrieve her at your convenience." 
 

"That is good. I will tell her so," said the Yakuza man. The two turned to the 

rest of the group. Moustache had one hand on the woman's arm-she had stopped 
fighting when Sushi had begun talking to his opponent in Japanese; presumably 
she understood that language. 
 

"I need to talk to this man;" Sushi said to Moustache. "He says the woman 

will go with you to the holding lounge, and I don't think she'll cause any trouble 
now. I'll take responsibility." 
 

Moustache looked to Do-Wop, who nodded. "Cool with me if you know what 

you're doing," said Do-Wop. "But be careful just because you know that cat's lingo 
don't mean you want to turn your back on him." 
 

"Don't worry, it's under control," said Sushi. He gestured to the Yakuza and 

together they walked out of the casino. Even before they were gone the normal 
sounds of gambling had resumed. 
 
"There they are," said Brandy, and there was no question what she meant. Three 
human-sized cats in Space Legion uniforms would have stood out in any crowd. 
And while the Gambolts were famed for their ability to infiltrate an enemy position 

without being seen or heard, there was no need for stealth here. They bounced 
into the entry lounge, three oversized balls of feline energy, eyes darting in every 
direction. Behind them, a group of humans in similar uniform slouched into the 
lounge-the rest of the recruits. 
 

The Gambolts immediately spotted the three black-uniformed humans 

standing together. They glided over and drew up in front of Phule, coming to 
attention. One of them turned on a translator and said, "New recruits reporting for 
duty, sir!" The Gambolt vocal equipment could make a limited range of human 
sounds, but communication was far smoother with a translator in place. 
 

"Welcome to Omega Company," said Phule, stepping forward. He waited 

until all the recruits had moved up to join them, in a ragged semblance of a line. "I 
am Captain Jester, and this is Lieutenant Armstrong. Sergeant Brandy here will be 
in charge of your training. You'll meet the rest of your comrades and officers back 
at the hotel. We're pleased to have you as part of our outfit." He turned to 
Armstrong, who had brought out a clipboard. "Carry on, Lieutenant." 
 

"Yes, sir!" said Armstrong, giving his usual crisp salute. He turned to face 

the new arrivals. "Attention! Sergeant Brandy will call roll." 
 

Brandy stepped forward and took the clipboard from Armstrong. She 

inspected the new arrivals. While she'd never seen Gambolts up close, these three 
looked to be in excellent physical condition, and their spanking-new uniforms 
effectively set off their lithe forms. If the Gambolts were indeed deadly fighters as 
rumor said, this trio would be a strong addition to the company. The rest of the 
recruits looked like a perfect match for the assorted misfits and malcontents of 
Omega Company. 
 

But there would be time enough to sort that out. She looked down at the 

clipboard and began reading names. 
 "Dukes?" 
 

"Here, Sergeant," answered the biggest of the three Gambolts-a tawny six-

footer, with light-green eyes and a nick out of its left ear. (Was this a male or a 
female? Brandy wondered idly. The Gambolts' sexual differences weren't 
immediately evident to the untrained human eye, and both sexes were known to 
choose military careers. It would probably make more difference to the Gambolts 
than it ever would to her.) 
 

"Welcome aboard, Dukes. Garbo?" 

 

"Here, Sergeant," said another Gambolt. The translator made this one's 

voice sound lighter and perhaps more feminine-as the choice of name also 
suggested-though the only outward physical distinction between this one and the 
other Gambolts was a slightly lighter build. Garbo had darker fur, nearly black, with 
a hint of a lighter colored undercoat. 
 

"Welcome to the company, Garbo. Rube?" 

 

"Right here, Sarge," said the third Gambolt, perhaps a few inches shorter 

than Dukes but even more imposingly built. Rube had gray fur, with slightly longer 
tufts on the cheeks, and its eyes seemed bigger than the others'. Its voice sounded 
a touch more jovial than the others', too, though that could easily be an artifice of 

the translator. 
 

"Welcome aboard," Brandy said again. "Slayer?" 

 

"Yo," said a scrawny human with a shaved head and a bone through its 

nose-it was difficult to determine its gender, as well. 
 

This was the kind of recruit Brandy was used to. "That's Yo, Sergeant to 

you, Slayer," she barked. The recruit flinched, and muttered something that 
sounded like an appropriate response. Brandy nodded-she'd have plenty of time to 
get into the fine points of Legion discipline, such as it was. For now, it was 
sufficient to establish who was in charge. She turned to the next name on the list. 
"Brick?" 
 

There were a dozen more recruits, all present, though none looked 

anywhere near as promising as the Gambolts. She finished the list, then turned to 
Armstrong and said, "All new troops present and accounted for, Lieutenant." 
 

"Very good," said Armstrong, but before he could say more he was 

interrupted by a new voice. 
 

"I'm a-gonna hafts take exception to that, Sarge," said a deep resonant 

voice. "I'm as much a member of this here company as anybody, and by the 
captain's own personal request, as it happens." 
 

Brandy turned to see a pudgy human, with long, dark slicked-back hair and 

even darker sunglasses. Like the others in the formation, the newcomer was 
dressed in black, although his jumpsuit was even more flamboyant than the version 
of the Legion uniform Phule's Company wore. And there was nothing at all military 
about the stranger's hipshot stance and half-sneering expression. 
 

It was Lieutenant Armstrong who broke the awkward silence. He pulled 

himself up to his full height and snapped, "If you're assigned to Omega Company, 
then fall in with the rest of the troops and report. This is the Legion, if you know 
what that means." 
 

"Lordy, do I ever," said the newcomer. He sauntered up next to the 

Gambolts, drew himself more or less upright, and gave a passable imitation of a 
salute. "Reverend Jordan Ayres reportin' for duty, suh. But y'all can call me Rev." 
 

"What the hell..." began Brandy, gearing up to give the new man a 

demonstration of how an angry top sergeant looked and sounded. 
 

But Phule said, "Wait a minute, Brandy. Reverend. 

 

" Phule's puzzled expression suddenly transformed itself into a broad smile 

and the captain reached out a hand for Ayres to shake. "Of course! You're the 
chaplain I requested from headquarters. Welcome to Omega Company." He shot a 
quizzical look at Armstrong. 
 

"A chaplain?" said Armstrong, staring at the newcomer. "I'd almost forgotten 

you'd asked. There wasn't anything about it in the dispatches from headquarters. 
I'm afraid you find us not properly prepared to greet you, Reverend Ayres. My 
apologies." 
 

"Think nothin' of it," said the chaplain, falling back into his former posture. 

"And jes' call me Rev, Lieutenant. Why, the less fuss y'all make about me, the 
better. I'm jes' here to do a job, same as everybody else." 

 

"Yes, that's the spirit," said Phule. "Now, I think it's time for us to get back to 

the Fat Chance where you people can meet your new comrades and get started on 
your duties. I can promise you a very interesting tour of duty with us." 
 

"That's why we're here," said one of the Gambolts-Dukes, the biggest of the 

trio. His expression could have passed for a grin, although the large and very sharp 
canine (or were they more properly feline?) teeth made it far more ferocious than 
an equivalent expression from a human. 
 

"Good, then let's go," said Brandy. "Follow me, on the double!" 

 

The new members of Phule's Company shouldered their bags, and followed 

Brandy and their officers past the line of curious tourists at the immigration desk, 
out to a waiting hoverbus that would take them back to the Fat Chance hotel and 
their new assignment. They quickly stowed their bags and boarded, and the bus 
nosed out into the light traffic and headed away. 
 

Neither they nor the tourists (who were after all most interested in getting to 

the casinos and spending their money) noticed the small figure in black that 
surreptitiously followed the legionnaires to the bus, and then set off on foot behind 
it, sticking carefully to the edge of the road and doing its best to avoid observation. 
 
 
 2 
Journal #281 
 

The unsavory elements of society look upon gambling as their private 

domain. Legitimate businessmen who enter that field are likely to find themselves 
the object of unwanted attention from those who wish to take the lion's share of the 
profits without having worked for it. Needless to say, this is not comfortable. 
 

The local mob on Lorelei was led by Maxine ( "Maxie ") Pruett. She had 

greeted my employer with a well-orchestrated campaign of strong-arm tactics to 
frighten away customers. She also sponsored an invasion of cardsharps and 
grifters intended to siphon off the casino's profits. She confidently expected these 
tactics to force the casino into bankruptcy, at which point she planned to foreclose 
on the substantial loans she had made the owners. 
 

But things did not go as Maxine had planned. Her takeover attempt was 

thwarted by my employer's access to the firepower of a fully equipped Legion 
company-as well as to a degree of advance intelligence provided largely by myself. 
But her failure did nothing to deter outside criminals from their own forays. My 
employer knew that such attempts were inevitable. What he didn't know was how 
quickly the predators would begin to circle...or to what extent they had Maxie's aid 
and comfort in their unsavory ventures. 
 
"You're underestimating Jester again," said Laverna, looking up from the book she 
was reading. Out of habit, she used Phule's Legion pseudonym, although she and 
her boss both knew his real name by now. "Or have you forgotten how lucky you 
were to get away with your skin all in one piece?" 
 

"I haven't forgotten," said Maxie Pruett. "You need a good memory to stay in 

this business as long as I have-or have you forgotten that?" Her piercing eyes 
glared at her chief advisor, but she knew and respected the tall black woman's 
talent for assessing risks unemotionally-an ability that had earned her the grudging 
nickname, "the Ice Bitch." 
 

"Point taken," said Laverna, holding her place in the book with a forefinger. 

"But remember this: Jester's troops will eventually be rotated out. When somebody 
else has the post, Jester may lose interest in the place, and move his money 
someplace he can keep an eye on it more easily. You can afford to bide your time, 
see who comes in next, and make your move then. You're here for the long term-
unless you make a serious mistake." 
 

Maxie nodded. "And you think going after the Fat Chance again is a 

mistake." 
 

"I know it is," said Laverna. She leaned forward in her chair. "The first time 

you tangled with Jester, you had all the advantages, and he still managed to come 
out ahead. And you were lucky, at that-all you lost was your bid to take over the 
Fat Chance right away. Next time, the consequences are likely to be permanent. 
He's got a pretty good idea who's behind any trouble that shows up at his door-and 
he's got the ability to hit back a lot harder than you can hit him." 
 

"That's how I like it," said Maxie. "All the money on the table, and no backing 

out. It's easy for you to say `take the long view'-you don't have to watch that joker 
pocket all the profits from the Fat Chance while you're waiting for him to go away." 
 

"I'm here, aren't I?" said Laverna. "I'm here for the long run, too. It's in my 

best interest to keep your business healthy. That's why I'm advising you to let 
things take their natural course. The odds always favor the house-and on Lorelei, 
the house means you. Let the odds do the work for you, and you'll eventually win 
everything." 
 

"I know that," said Maxie. She went over to a window and looked out at the 

streets below. The view from the penthouse suite was spectacular, with all the 
lights of Lorelei's casinos twinkling below her. Actually, since the hotel was on an 
orbiting space station, the "outdoors" was as much "indoors" as the room itself. But 
there was something comforting about the illusion of an actual "world" outside, and 
the casinos wanted their customers to be comfortable-at least, as long as they had 
money to spend. 
 

Maxine looked out the window for a moment, leaning her hands on the sill. 

Then she said, without turning around, "But there's another problem. Success 
breeds success, and if Phule can keep the Fat Chance successful, it'll start cutting 
into everybody else's profits. Even after his unit gets transferred out, he'll leave 
somebody sharp in charge of it, somebody we'll have a hard time getting to. And 
the momentum will keep going his way. We need to stop that momentum now. 
That's why I've done a few things to stir the pot-things they won't be ready for." 
 

"Yes, I hear that the Yakuza team is already on-station," said Laverna. 

"There was a dustup at the blackjack tables in the Fat Chance this afternoon-I think 
that may have been their work." 
 

"Yes, I heard about that little ruckus," said Maxie. "I am taking your advice, 

by the way. None of my little plans can be traced to me-it's all going to look like 
somebody else's doing. I can just sit back and collect my regular percentage, and 
watch the sharks begin to circle around Jester's little empire. I think I'm going to 
enjoy this, Laverna." 
 

"I hope you do, boss," said Laverna, but her expression suggested that she 

still saw trouble ahead. Of course, that was part of her job-anticipating trouble and 
finding ways to head it off. She wished that Maxie would stop finding ways to 
borrow trouble...but if Maxie had been like that, she wouldn't have needed 
someone like Laverna. They give you lemons, you make lemonade, thought 
Laverna, and went back to her book. 
 
Phule stepped out of the hoverbus and into the front entrance of the Fat Chance 
Casino, leaving Sergeant Brandy to show the recruits to their quarters. He was 
followed by the chaplain, who ignored Brandy's icy stare and fell in behind the 
captain as if it were his place. Nothing had yet been said about Rev's nominal rank, 
so Brandy resisted the impulse to order him into line with the other new arrivals. 
There'd be time to talk to the captain when she'd finished her current job. After all, 
in the Omega Mob, a lot of the usual patterns of military life and protocol were-well, 
the only way to put it was different. Brandy liked it that way. 
 

As he entered the casino, Rev cast a solemn eye upon the busy gambling 

tables, the scantily clad waitresses, the bustling bartenders, and the fevered 
patrons. Sprinkled throughout the crowd, conspicuous in their black Legion 
uniforms, were the guards-the ones he had been called to minister to. "This is my 
portion, then," he murmured to himself. "A chance to follow in the King's footsteps. 
Let me make the most of it." Then he said aloud to Phule, "Captain, I'll ask your 
permission to stop here for a while and meet the people I'll be serving. Plenty of 
time to find my quarters later." 
 

Phule nodded, saying, "Sure, why not?" and Rev made a gesture that might 

have been mistaken for a salute before heading off into the crowd. Phule barely 
noticed the chaplain's departure; he had spotted Moustache striding purposefully 
toward him. "Yes, Sergeant, what's the situation?" he asked, as the older man fell 
in step beside him. 
 

"Sushi's disappeared, sir," said Moustache, in his clipped, British accent. 

"The eyes spotted a pair of card cheats at one of the blackjack tables. Sushi and 
Do-Wop moved in to handle it; the man turned out to be a martial arts specialist, 
and they put up a bit of a fight." 
 

"That's unusual," said Phule, his eyebrows rising. "Any injuries?" 

 

"None reported, sir," Moustache said. "A bit of broken furniture, but that was 

replaced in no time at all." 
 

"Well, that's good," said Phule. He stopped, and turned to face the older 

man. "How long ago was this?" 
 

"Right after you left, sir," said the sergeant. "Coming up on forty minutes 

ago. After the first flurry, Sushi and the man left together. Sushi told Do-Wop he 
had things under control, but didn't give details. And he turned off his 

communicator as they left. We have the woman in custody-she turned tame as a 
puppy after the man stopped fighting-but she's not talking. I doubt she knows 
where they are, anyway. We certainly don't." 
 

"Sushi turned off his communicator, you say?" A look of concern came over 

Phule's face. "That's not a smart move. I have faith in his judgment, but this..." 
 

"I know what you mean, sir," said Moustache, grimly. "We can't always stick 

to procedures, but he should have given Mother a probable destination before 
dropping out of touch. I didn't see anything that justified that." 
 

"What steps are we taking to locate him?" 

 

"Very low-profile at present, sir," said Moustache. "Lieutenant Rembrandt 

was informed as soon as we learned of the incident. She ordered all personnel to 
report any sighting of either Sushi or the other man-so far no word. We're 
assuming that the other man could have taken control of Sushi's communicator, so 
we don't want to make a general broadcast that he might intercept." 
 

"Is there any reason to believe that's the case?" asked Phule. 

 

"None so far," said Moustache. "But you'd best talk to Rembrandt and 

Mother-they've been watching the situation develop ever since Sushi left the casino 
floor, and may know a fair amount they haven't passed on-the enemy may have 
ears." 
 

"Yes, of course," said Phule. "Carry on, then, Sergeant-it looks as if you've 

done everything you could." He turned and headed for the comm center. If anyone 
knew anything more than Moustache, it would be Mother. 
 

Neither he nor Moustache noticed the small figure in black that watched 

them from behind a large, potted Durdanian fern, then swiftly moved to follow 
Phule toward the elevator bank. 
 
"These will be your quarters, for the time being," said Brandy, opening the door to 
a suite on the third floor of the hotel. One of Phule's innovations had been 
abandonment of the normal Legion barracks system. Almost immediately upon 
taking over the Omega Mob, he had moved the troops out of their quarters, lock, 
stock, and barrel, and checked them into the best hotel in town while the quarters 
were rebuilt to his specifications-which were, if anything, even more comfortable 
than the hotel. He hadn't seen any reason to change that policy here on Lorelei. 
Except for a few individuals engaged in undercover work outside the hotel, 
everyone in the company was in the best quarters the Fat Chance had to offer. 
 

"This is good," said Rube, unshouldering his heavy pack and putting it on 

the floor. Dukes made a sound that the translator turned into a murmur of 
agreement. Brandy wasn't surprised. In his usual thorough research, Phule had 
satisfied himself that human-style beds would be suitable for Gambolt use. 
Otherwise, he would have spent whatever was necessary for sleeping 
arrangements as comfortable to the Gambolts as the best hotel beds were for the 
human troops in his command. It was Legion policy to give equal accommodations 
to troops of all races, but in most units that meant equal discomfort. In Phule's 
Company, it meant equal luxury, from top to bottom. 

 

The smallest Gambolt, Garbo, stood looking around the room without 

speaking. Finally Garbo said, "Do all three of us have to share this room?" 
 

"Why, is there a problem?" Brandy was taken aback. To the best of her 

knowledge, the Gambolts did not segregate troops by sex in their own units-Phule 
had been careful to determine that was the case-and in any case, they attached no 
social significance to males and females sharing quarters. So there had appeared 
to be no reason to set aside two suites for the new troops, when one large one was 
available. Besides, in a twenty-four-hour mission like casino security, it was 
common for roommates to end up on different schedules, with one needing to 
sleep while the others were up and active. The layout of the suite, with several 
separate rooms that could be closed off, took that possibility into account. 
 

"Yes, there is a problem," said Garbo, turning to face her sergeant. "I joined 

this unit because I wanted to serve with humans, not to be set apart with others of 
my own kind. And here, at the very start, you are about to put me into quarters with 
the only others of my kind in your company. Isn't there anyplace else I can be 
housed?" 
 

Brandy was surprised, but the request was reasonable. It was unusual for 

Gambolts to serve with anyone not of their own race. So it wasn't really surprising 
that a Gambolt who'd volunteered for a human outfit didn't want to be housed with 
her own kind. It was a far cry from being the strangest thing she'd run across in the 
Legion. In fact, to most Space Legion veterans, it would have been suspicious if 
there hadn't been something strange about a new batch of recruits... 
 

"All right, I can fix that," Brandy said to the Gambolt. "But first, while we're 

here-Dukes and Rube, you two have an hour to unpack your things. At 1500 hours 
you'll report to Sergeant Chocolate Harry at the supply depot to be outfitted. At 
1600 hours, you and the other recruits will report to the Grand Ballroom for 
orientation and duty assignments. Understood?" 
 

"Yes, Sergeant," the Gambolts said again. 

 

"OK. Garbo, let's see if we can find you a room before 1500-I want 

everybody set up with rooms and duty assignments by then. It may mean you don't 
have time to get completely settled in until later. Understood?" 
 

"Yes, Sergeant," said Garbo, shouldering her pack. 

 

"Good," said Brandy. She thought to herself, They said these Gambolts 

make ideal soldiers. I wonder what's wrong with them that they ended up in the 
Omega Mob? She remembered Phule's determination to make his company an 
example of the Legion's true potential. Maybe these Gambolt recruits were the next 
step toward making that determination a reality. We'll find out soon enough, she 
thought, and headed down the corridor, with Garbo close behind. 
 
Tusk-anini was perched on a stool near the entrance of the Fat Chance Casino 
when two humans in bad suits stepped up to him. Even Tusk-anini, who paid very 
little attention to human clothing styles, could tell that the suits were bad. Not only 
cheap and ill-fitting, but unattractive by design. They looked as ugly as the 
uniforms the Omega Company had worn before Phule's arrival. 

 

"Excuse me, friend, can you direct us to the Fat Chance Casino?" said the 

taller of the two humans. He wasn't that much taller, but the difference in height 
was the only marked distinction between them. They had nondescript faces, mousy 
brown hair in nearly identical unflattering short cuts, and extremely unstylish dark 
glasses. They also carried identical briefcases, in a sort of grayish dark material 
that had come out of a vat in some chemical plant. The briefcases were almost the 
same noncommittal color as the suits. 
 

"You standing in front of Fat Chance," said Tusk-anini, cautiously. While 

neither of the humans had done anything in particular to alarm him, he had a bad 
feeling about them. One thing the Volton had learned during his association with 
humans was that feelings could be trusted. In fact, they sometimes gave you better 
answers than the most rigorous logical analysis. 
 

The shorter human looked up and noticed the sign and said, "Yes, so we 

are." Now that he heard the voice, Tusk-anini realized that the shorter one was a 
female, a fact that the baggy suit and short haircut did much to conceal from the 
casual glance. 
 

The man spoke again, "Are you a casino employee?" 

 

"Yes, I am," said Tusk-anini-not quite truthfully, for while the legionnaires 

had been brought to Lorelei to guard the casino, they had always been freelance 
contractors, not regular employees. Now, of course, as a member of Phule's 
Company Tusk-anini was in fact a part-owner of the Fat Chance. A comparatively 
small part-owner, since every member of Phule's Company also had shares, but 
put together the Omega Mob was the majority stockholder. 
 

"You're just the sophont we need to talk to, then," said the man. "We're 

trying to gather information on the operation here. We'd like you to answer a few 
questions." 
 

"Asking anything you want. I answer what I may," said the Volton cautiously. 

He had begun to wonder whether these two humans were from a competing 
casino, or from one of the criminal organizations the Legion was here to guard 
against. His eyes narrowed, giving his warthog-like face an even fiercer expression 
than normal. 
 

"Maybe I should rephrase that," said the man. He pulled a wallet out of his 

jacket pocket and flipped it open to reveal a holo-ID, which he held up a few inches 
from Tusk-anini's snout. Above his picture (which miraculously made him look even 
less attractive than he was in person) were the initials IRS; below it was written 
Roger Peele, Special Agent. "We're in receipt of information to the effect that your 
employer is failing to report substantial amounts of income," said Special Agent 
Peele. "If you impede a lawful investigation, you're guilty of conspiracy to defraud a 
government agency. That's a serious offense, in case you didn't know it." 
 

Tusk-anini abruptly stood up. This brought him to his full height, nearly 

seven feet tall, and put his enormous barrel chest nearly at eye level for the two 
humans. "You ask me betray Captain Jester!" he accused. "Tusk-anini no do that! 
Not right to betray the captain." 
 

"Easy now, friend-you're looking at this all wrong," said the woman in a calm 

voice. "We appreciate your loyalty to your commander-that's what makes the 
military work. But sometimes you have to look beyond that to a higher loyalty. Your 
captain has to report to his generals, and they report to civilian authorities. The 
Interstellar Revenue System is part of that civilian authority, a very important part 
of it. It's your duty to cooperate with us." 
 

"If captain say it my duty, I do it," said Tusk-anini. "He not say it, I not do it. 

You go away now." He took a step forward. His powerful physique and staring eyes 
made him a menacing figure. The two IRS agents involuntarily stepped backward. 
 

"Very well," snarled Special Agent Peele. "We have more than one way to 

find out what we want. And you'd better hope your own nose is clean-because if it's 
not, you'll be in the same trouble as your captain." 
 

"You call my nose dirty?" roared Tusk-anini, and at that the two IRS agents 

backed off still another step. "You go away and leave captain alone," he repeated. 
 

"We've come here to do a job, the same as you," said the woman. "We're 

not going anywhere until we've finished it. When we do, it'll go better for you if 
you're on the right side, friend." 
 

"Tusk-anini know what side he on," growled the Volton. "You not on 

captain's side, you not my friend. I no like people who call me friend when they 
not." He took another step forward, and this time the two IRS agents turned and 
hurried away. 
 
"Captain! You're just in time-you won't believe what's happened now." 
 

Phule was hurrying down an inside corridor to the company's command and 

communications headquarters to learn what progress was being made in the 
search for Sushi and the mysterious man he had disappeared with. But he turned 
at the sound of Dee Dee Watkins's voice. He already knew that her problems 
usually required far more time and energy than they really deserved. But to ignore 
Dee Dee was to risk escalating the problem. "Yes, Miss Watkins?" he said, trying 
his best to look concerned. 
 

The tiny blonde entertainer was standing with her hands on her hips, looking 

as if she were prepared to challenge the entire fighting strength of Phule's 
Company if it stood between her and what she wanted. Considering that she was 
wearing a little girl's flowered pinafore and had her hair up in pigtails, her ability to 
project an air of menace was no small accomplishment. Perhaps she had some 
future as an actress after all, Phule thought to himself. 
 

"Take a look for yourself," she said. "Lex has me wearing this ridiculous 

costume for the big closing number, all because he's jealous of me, and he's trying 
to sabotage my career." 
 

Phule looked at the costume more closely. While it was clearly not designed 

to emphasize Dee Dee's major assets, it more than made up in cuteness what it 
lacked in sex appeal. Even then, it fit snugly in the right places, and displayed a 
very satisfactory length of leg... 
 

He made himself focus on the starlet's face. "I'm sorry, Miss Watkins, I'm 

afraid my military duties have eaten up too much of my time for me to keep up with 

what's happening on the artistic side of the operation. If you're asking my personal 
opinion, I don't think you look at all ridiculous in the costume, but of course I'm no 
expert." 
 

Dee Dee's frown deepened, "Well, Captain, I'm disappointed. If you'd try..." 

 

Whatever she was about to say was interrupted by a shout of "Stop him!" 

 

Before Phule could turn to see what the commotion was about, a small, 

dark-clad figure dashed out of a doorway leading back to the casino and cut 
directly between Phule and the actress, knocking them both off balance. A pair of 
uniformed legionnaires burst out of the same doorway at full speed. Somehow, 
they managed to avoid Dee Dee, but in the process they crashed into one another. 
One bounced off the wall and caught his balance against a small, potted frogwood 
tree, but the other went down-catching Phule directly in the legs. Dee Dee let out a 
piercing shriek as the captain landed on the floor. 
 

"Oh my God. Captain, I'm sorry, sir," said the legionnaire who'd bounced off 

the potted plant. He rushed to help Phule upright, making little brushing motions as 
if to clean off the captain's uniform. 
 

The legionnaire who'd knocked Phule down looked up with a dazed 

expression. His gaze paused for a moment on Dee Dee's legs, but quickly moved 
upward when he realized whom he'd decked in his rush. He clambered quickly to 
his feet and stood at attention. " 'Pologies, Cap'n," he said. 
 

"No damage done, men," said Phule, looking at the legionnaires. "Gabriel, 

what's this all about?" he asked the one who'd helped him to his feet. 
 

"We spotted a spy, sir," said Gabriel. "Right here in the Fat Chance." 

 

"Gab'l sayin' truth, Cap'n," said the other. Phule recognized him as Street, 

Gabriel's partner-a lean, tough man from the slums of Rockhall. He could speak 
fairly good Standard, but when he got excited-as he was now-his accent was so 
thick Phule could barely understand him. "He comin' this way when we spot him. 
Bet for sure be followin' you." 
 

"He might be an assassin, sir," said Gabriel, grim-faced. 

 

"An assassin?" Phule scoffed. "I doubt it. For one thing, whoever that was 

you were chasing had a perfect chance to do me in not thirty seconds ago, and 
didn't. What makes you think he was a spy, anyway?" 
 

"Not so hard figurin' that out," said Street. "He the wrong species-ain't no 

little lizards in the company. Got humans, got Tusk-anini, got a couple Synthians, 
hear we got some cats now. No lizards, Cap'n." 
 

"Maybe he was a customer," said Phule, still dubious. 

 

"Why he wearin' our uniform, then?" asked Street. "He spyin', you bet all you 

money on that." 
 

Phule frowned. He hadn't gotten a close look at the small figure that darted 

past him before he'd been knocked down, but it did have a distinct resemblance to 
a meter-high lizard-and it had been wearing Legion black. Perhaps Headquarters 
had sent an observer to keep an eye on him without letting him know... 
 

"Well, he's gotten away for the moment," Phule said. "You two men return to 

your posts, and keep your eyes open. I'll tell Mother to alert everyone for a possible 

intruder, and..." 
 

"Got it already, darlin'," came the voice from his wrist communicator. "Small 

lizardlike alien in Legion uniform on the loose-that shouldn't be too hard to spot." 
 

"Good," said Phule, musing. Hearing Rose's description of the intruder set 

something itching in the back of his mind, but he couldn't quite pin it down...Well, 
he'd figure it out soon enough. Meanwhile, he asked, "Any word on Sushi's 
whereabouts?" 
 

"Nothin' we can use, sweetie, but we've got other news. We found out we'd 

recorded his conversation with the man he fought. It's in Japanese, but we've run it 
through a translator. I don't want to jump to conclusions, but Lieutenant 
Rembrandt's all in a sweat-the poor girl thinks Sushi might be about to defect. 
Listen to this and see what you think." 
 

Phule lifted the wrist communicator to his ear, and the recording started, but 

as he began to concentrate on it, Dee Dee stamped her foot. "Well! I come to you 
with a problem, and what happens? First, two of your men nearly knock me down, 
and then you act as if I'm not even here. I'll have you know..." 
 

Phule's concentration broke, and he looked down at Dee Dee, whose frown 

was deeper than ever. "Excuse me, Miss Watkins, I was listening to an intelligence 
report. If you'll give me one moment..." 
 

"Give you a moment? Why, you haven't given me so much as the time of 

day! Lex is trying to ruin my act, and all you have to say is..." 
 

"Captain, is trouble happening," said Tusk-anini, coming around a bend in 

the corridor. He hurried up, ignoring the fuming Dee Dee and said, "Two humans 
looking for you-they try make me tell them things, but I no talk. I think they want 
make trouble." 
 

"Trouble? What makes you think that?" Phule knew that anything that 

worried the usually taciturn Volton had to be serious. 
 

"They show me identification, say IRS," said Tusk-anini. "I don't know what 

that means, but Gnat tell me it big trouble, so I come tell you." 
 

"IRS?" Phule repeated. "They can't have anything on me-my records are 

immaculate. Beeker knows more about tax law than the people that wrote it." 
 

"Captain! I'm not going to stand here and be ignored," said Dee Dee in a 

voice that could have frozen the swimming pool in the hotel across the street. 
 

"Yo, sucker, you the boss here? We been lookin' for your ass," said a gruff 

voice from a medium distance. Three large humans came down the corridor, 
practically filling it. Two of them were males, to judge from the long, unruly beards. 
All three were wearing denim and leather covered with metal studs, chains, and 
patches. Their bare arms showed a variety of tattoos, but they had in common a 
large red "R" with blazing jets on either side. The man in the middle was almost as 
large as Tusk-anini. He wore a German-style helmet on his head, a brass ring in 
his nose, and several more in each ear-one in the shape of a human skull. They 
swaggered up and stopped in front of Phule, the leader (or so he appeared to be) 
less than an arm's length away from the captain. 
 

Phule pulled himself up straight and said, "As you can see, I'm speaking to 

this young lady. I'll be glad to listen to you people as soon as I'm done with her." 
He turned back to Dee Dee, who had fallen silent upon seeing the three 
newcomers. 
 

"Tryin' to get it on with the fox, huh?" The big man sneered. "That jive can 

wait-we got serious business. You know a cheap punk name of Chocolate Harry?" 
 

"Chocolate Harry no cheap punk," growled Tusk-anini, moving in to stand at 

Phule's side. "And you talk polite to captain, or you not like what happens next." 
 

The three newcomers laughed. "Listen to the warthog," said the woman-her 

voice was deep and rough, but unquestionably female. "He thinks he can tell the 
Renegades how to talk, he got another think comin'." 
 

"So-you're the Renegades," Phule said. He'd heard C.H.'s tale of how a rival 

biker gang had vowed vengeance for some long-ago injury, but had never taken 
seriously the likelihood that they would actually track down his supply sergeant. 
Apparently he'd miscalculated. 
 

"Damn straight, soldier boy," said the big man. "Us and a few hundred 

others is the Renegades, and we're looking for Chocolate Harry. Sounds to me like 
you and the warthog just might know where he is." 
 

"If we do, it's none of your business," said Phule. "He's a legionnaire, and 

you'd be better advised to forget whatever disagreement you have with him. We 
protect our own." 
 

"Your own?" The woman spat on the floor, then grinned crookedly; Phule 

could see that she was missing several teeth. "You can call him your own, but his 
fat ass is ours, soldier boy. And you know what we gonna do when we get it?" 
 

"We gonna slice it three ways," said the big man, leering evilly. 

 

The third man spoke for the first time, in a rasping low voice made even 

more sinister by his absolute deadpan delivery. "We gonna cut it deep, wide, and 
often." He patted a sheath on the belt of his jeans, where the handle of a 
vibroblade could be seen. 
 

"You not getting close enough to do that," said Tuskanini, and as he spoke, 

a loud whistle came from behind the three Renegades. They whirled to see 
Moustache standing there, backed by half a dozen legionnaires brandishing Rolling 
Thunder belt-fed shotguns. "You go now before we getting mad," said the Volton. 
 

"Shit," said the big man, half under his breath. Then he turned to Phule and 

said, "We got no fight with you, soldier boy. Tell your kids to put away the toys-
we're not gonna start nothin' now. But make sure Chocolate Harry knows we've got 
him spotted, and he can't hide no more." 
 

The three Renegades turned as one, and strode out past the assembled 

troops, managing to keep up an impressive front in the face of so much firepower. 
When they had gone, Phule let out the deep breath he'd been holding. If the bikers 
had decided to grab him and Dee Dee as hostages, the shotguns would have been 
of little use. But for now, the threat was defused. 
 

"Captain! Now, about this costume!" Dee Dee's voice snapped him back to 

reality. It was beginning to look like a very long afternoon. 
 

 
 3 
Journal #285 
 

Command of a military unit is no sinecure, even in the notoriously lax Space 

Legion. Put in command of a unit that had become a dumping ground for 
malcontents and incompetents, my employer knew he faced a formidable task in 
making anything of it-let alone an elite company. That he had accomplished as 
much as he had spoke highly of his determination. It goes without saying that the 
accomplishment was achieved at no small personal cost-especially considering 
that much of what he had accomplished had been opposed at every step by his 
superior officers. 
 

As became apparent, his successes on Lorelei only gave his enemies more 

reason to hate him. 
 
General Blitzkrieg stomped into his office. It was shaping up as another rotten day. 
There had been a lot of those lately-it was almost enough to make him opt for early 
retirement and accept the lower pension as fair trade for the aggravation. But he 
wasn't about to be eased out of the saddle. Not while his purpose remained 
unfulfilled. 
 

"Here are your news printouts, sir," said his aide, a tired-looking major who'd 

held the position for three years. Being aide-de-camp to one of the three top 
generals in the Space Legion had looked like a brilliant career move a few years 
earlier: an ideal shortcut to promotion for an ambitious officer with neither political 
connections, personal wealth, nor military talent. But Major Sparrowhawk had been 
second-guessing her decision to take the assignment ever since. She handed the 
sheaf of customized, automatically-edited flimsies to the general. Most senior 
officers got their intelligence straight off the Net, but Blitzkrieg was a stickler for the 
ancient print technology-"good old hard copy," as he called it. 
 

The general riffled through the printouts, and threw them into the trash. 

"Nothing worth a damn," he growled, and turned to go into his inner office. 
 

Sparrowhawk cleared her throat. "Begging your pardon, sir, but I've been 

sorting your news printouts for you for the entire time I've been here. For the last 
year or so, you hardly glance at them before you throw them away. Perhaps I need 
to redefine the sort, or expand the coverage. What are you looking for that isn't 
showing up?" 
 

Blitzkrieg stopped and scowled at his aide, who began to regret asking. 

"Don't you know by now? I'm waiting to see if that damned Captain Jester has 
finally done something I can cashier him for. You won't have to expand your 
coverage to find that-sooner or later, the idiot is bound to commit a blunder that'll 
put him in the headlines galaxywide, and I'll give him what he deserves. And then I 
can retire, knowing I've done the Legion a service for which my successors will be 
forever grateful." 
 

"I thought as much, sir," said Sparrowhawk. Her brows knitted for a moment, 

then she said, "I think you might want to take another look through those flimsies, 

then. There's an article there I had to look at twice myself-it wasn't immediately 
obvious why your search parameters turned it up. But I think you'll find it very 
interesting indeed." 
 

"Really?" Blitzkrieg bent over and retrieved the printouts from the trash. He 

flipped through them again, this time more slowly. His expression became more 
and more puzzled. Finally he looked up at Sparrowhawk and said, "Major, if you 
think I enjoy guessing games, you don't know me very well. What's the story, and 
why would I be interested?" 
 

"The third one down, sir," she said, secretly pleased that the general had 

overlooked it twice. "The one about the new government on Landoor." 
 

"Hmmm..." The general scanned the article, but his perplexity grew, and at 

last he held it up accusingly. "There's nothing about Jester here, Major." 
 

"No, sir," said Major Sparrowhawk, patiently. She knew she'd have to 

explain it to him-Blitzkrieg's rise to the top of the Space Legion had nothing to do 
with intellectual eminence. "Do you remember the episode that first brought Jester-
he went by the name `Scaramouche' then-to your attention?" 
 

"Damned right I remember it, Major," growled Blitzkrieg. "The ignorant pup 

talked a pilot into strafing the signing of a peace treaty. Luckily there was enough 
warning for everyone on the ground to get to cover-or maybe not so luckily. A few 
casualties and we'd have put Jester behind bars." 
 

"Exactly, sir," said Sparrowhawk. "It may have slipped your memory that 

Landoor is the world where that incident occurred." 
 

"Yes, of course I knew that," said Blitzkrieg. "So, life goes on, and they've 

got a new government. Nothing to concern us, eh, Major?" 
 

"Perhaps not," Sparrowhawk doggedly continued. "Nothing directly, of 

course. There was some information down in the fifth paragraph I thought you 
could turn to use, but perhaps I misunderstood its implications." 
 

"Possibly you did," said the general, glancing at the sheet of printout in his 

hand. "Well, not everyone has the instinct for grand strategy, Major. But if you stick 
with me, you may have the opportunity to learn the rudiments." 
 

"Yes, sir," said Sparrowhawk. Now she was certain he'd read the paragraph 

again. Perhaps he'd see how to bend it to his own ends without more prompting. 
He wasn't really all that stupid, she told herself. With her help, he'd eventually get 
his revenge on Jester-and then retire, and at last she'd be free of him. 
 

The general took the printout into his inner office, and closed the door. 

When he was gone, she turned back to her computer-her stocks had been doing 
nicely, but recent news suggested that they might have peaked. She wanted to see 
if it was time to sell and get into something else... 
 

She managed to read nearly a dozen screens of financial analysis before 

the general buzzed her on the intercom and roared, "Sparrowhawk! Get me the 
General Staff office, right away! No, make that a conference call-add on 
Ambassador Gottesman, too. I've come up with the perfect answer to our problems 
with Jester!" 
 

"Right away, sir," she said, smiling. She already knew exactly what the 

general would want from his superiors. Sometimes, the job had its rewards, after 
all. 
 
"Hey, Do-Wop, how's it going?" said Mess Sergeant Escrima, looking up from a 
shipment of fresh asparagus that had just arrived. The sprouts were young and 
tender, a miracle of hydroponic agriculture and genetic tailoring, but Escrima was 
still inspecting them as critically as he did every item of food that passed through 
his kitchens. "Any sign of that partner of yours yet?" 
 

"Nah, Sarge-wherever Soosh is hiding, it's a good spot," said Do-Wop, 

stopping at the end of the counter where the asparagus was laid out. He looked 
around the kitchen. "We're looking everywhere we can without spooking the 
customers. I guess you didn't see him?" 
 

"Haven't laid eyes on him," said Escrima, waving a hand to indicate the 

whole kitchen. Two assistant cooks were at work slicing something, and several 
large pots were already boiling atop the luxury hotel's state-of-the-art TherMaster 
MultiRange. "Not today, at least. Last I saw him was Sunday-I needed to borrow a 
few bucks until payday. Bad run of luck..." 
 

"Tell me about it, man," said Do-Wop, rolling his eyes. "I thought I knew my 

way around a card table-especially after the captain had those pro gamblers show 
us the ropes. There's not a card mechanic's trick I can't spot by now. But it don't 
make me a winner. I think my luck's even worse than it was before I knew what to 
watch out for." 
 

"Ditto," said Escrima. "Without Sushi, I wouldn't have two nickels to rub 

together. With him bankrolling me, at least I've got something to get back to the 
tables with so I can try to reverse my luck." 
 

"Yeah, he's been lending me enough to scrape through, too. I'm gonna owe 

him a bundle next paycheck, though. Maybe I'd be better off if he didn't come 
back." Do-Wop frowned, then blurted out, "You know I don't mean that, Escrima." 
 

"I didn't think you did," said Escrima, nodding. "But he won't be going 

anywhere-too many people owe him. Let's hope he's not selling our markers to the 
Yakuza. I hear those boys play really dirty with deadbeats. So hurry up and find 
him-I don't like owing him three months' pay, and he's one of us. I'd hate to owe it 
to somebody who's only in it for the money." 
 

"Yeah, at least Soosh won't break your legs if you miss a payment," said 

Do-Wop. "You spot him, let Mother know ASAP, OK?" 
 

"Sure will," said Escrima, nodding. "Good luck." 

 

"I could use that in more than one department," muttered Do-Wop as he 

went out the door. Escrima didn't answer; he had already turned his attention back 
to, that evening's meal. 
 
"Come on, this is ridiculous," said Brandy. She stared at the harried desk clerk. 
Garbo stood next to her, drawing curious stares from customers standing in line at 
the registration desk. Everybody had seen the Gambolts on the trivid news; seeing 
a life-sized one standing two meters away, in full Legion uniform, was another story 

entirely. Especially if you knew the catlike aliens' reputation as the most deadly 
hand-to-hand fighters in the galaxy... 
 

But dangerous as the Gambolt looked, it was the undeniably human Brandy 

who was the real danger at this time, with her temper edging toward an explosion. 
"How hard is it to find me one regular room?" she growled, as the desk clerk tried 
to get his computer to cooperate. "Didn't anybody teach you how to charge it to the 
captain's account?" 
 

"I'm very sorry, ma'am, but I keep getting some sort of error message," said 

the desk clerk. His eyes slid sideways to Garbo, who had stood like a statue ever 
since Brandy had brought her down to the desk. It had been no more than ten 
minutes, but it was unnerving. 
 

"Maybe you're entering the account number wrong," said Brandy. "You do 

know the captain's account number for Legion business, don't you, Junior?" 
 

"Yes, ma'am," said the desk clerk. He was a thin, nervous-looking young 

man, with a tasteful gold-plated ring in his left nostril and an asymmetrical, neo-
Georgian blue-powdered wig. "The system has a macro to access the captain's 
Dilithium Express account without entering the number every time. There shouldn't 
be any problem with his credit. I'm not quite sure what..." 
 

"Well, you better figure it out, Junior, or there'll be a Gambolt sleeping in the 

lobby," said Brandy. "I don't think she'd eat any customers, but she might take a 
bite or two out of the staff. So the sooner you get her a room, the better." 
 

"I'm trying, ma'am," the desk clerk repeated. "If this try doesn't go through, 

I'll enter it manually." His expression was sulky and put-upon, but by the way his 
fingers flew over the cyborged touchpad imprinted on the skin of his left forearm, 
he was taking Brandy's threats very seriously indeed. Brandy continued to scowl, 
although she suspected she was already getting all the mileage she could out of 
sheer intimidation. 
 

So it was purely by chance that she happened to look away from the 

registration desk just in time to see a small, black-clad figure round the corner of 
the counter and sprint toward her. This must be the intruder Mother had warned 
everyone about! 
 

Whether by instinct or training-after so many years in the Legion, it was hard 

to tell where one left off and the other began-she dropped into a defensive crouch. 
Her attention now focused, she registered consciously what she'd been hearing in 
the background-voices raised, and feet hurrying in pursuit. 
 

"He went through there!" 

 

"Hurry, before he gets away!" 

 

And louder than the rest, "Spy!" 

 

"Hold it right there," she said in a voice that radiated the authority of a 

veteran top sergeant. To anyone with the barest minimum of military training, that 
voice was nearly impossible to disobey. And sure enough, the black-clad figure 
came to a momentary halt. In that frozen fraction of a second, she saw a meter-tall 
lizard, dressed in a miniature Space Legion jumpsuit. They stared at each other for 
perhaps a full second. 

 

Brandy was already in motion before the lizard broke out of its frozen 

stance. She dove straight toward its midsection. But the lizard was quicker than 
she was. It sidestepped to the left, watched Brandy sail past it to land flat on her 
belly, and turned to dash off toward the open door across the lobby. "Get him, 
Garbo," barked Brandy, sprawling at full length on the floor. 
 

The lizardlike alien, which had appeared to accelerate to top speed in two 

strides, made a feint to the left, then dodged back to the right, and leaped its own 
height into the air. Brandy's mouth fell open just watching the alien move. 
 

Garbo was quicker. 

 

Without seeming to have moved at all, the Gambolt was waiting when the 

lizard came down, and calmly placed one paw on the lizard's collar, the other in the 
middle of its chest. Her claws were visible, spread wide on the lizard's chest. "Do 
not move," said Garbo. The look that accompanied the words was pure feline 
anticipation. It was difficult for a human observer familiar with cats to escape the 
impression that, if the lizard attempted to escape, Garbo would have a great deal 
of enjoyment recapturing it, and the lizard would not. 
 

"Very good, you have apprehended me," said the lizard, in a translator-

generated voice. "That is first-class work, and I am impressed indeed. Now, I wish 
to report to Captain Clown." 
 

Brandy had managed to recover her breath and climb to her feet. The troops 

who had been in hot pursuit of the lizard had lined up behind her, waiting for her 
orders now that the fugitive was apparently captured. She looked at the lizard in 
disbelief. 
 

"Captain Clown?" she asked, frowning. "There's no such person. Who the 

hell are you, anyway? You're not any member of this outfit, but you're wearing our 
unit patch." 
 

The lizard assumed a more upright posture-difficult, with the Gambolt still 

keeping it under close guard. "I am Flight Leftenant Qual, Zenobian Space 
Command," it said. "I am attached to this company as military observer. Orders 
require me to report to Captain Clown, and I hereby request to be taken to him." 
 

"Military observer?" said Brandy. She motioned to Garbo, who slightly 

relaxed her grip on the Zenobian's collar. "I do remember something about that, 
now. But why were you sneaking around the place and running away from my 
people when they spotted you?" 
 

"I am observing," said Qual. "Part of this job is to cipher out how troops are 

ready for surprises, so I make a surprise. You catch on very quick, especially this 
one." He indicated the Gambolt who had collared him. 
 

"I still think he's a spy, Sarge," growled Gabriel, who looked winded from the 

chase. There was a mutter of agreement from the others who'd been pursuing the 
Zenobian. 
 

"Quiet," ordered Brandy, turning around. "We'll let the captain figure that out. 

You all return to your posts; we've got this under control. Dismissed." 
 

"Right-o, Top," said one of the troops, but there didn't seem to be much 

enthusiasm in it. They turned and headed back to their posts. 

 

Brandy turned back to Qual and Garbo. "OK, we'll bring you to the captain to 

report in as soon as we finish here. By the way, his name is Jester, not Clown. 
Garbo, make sure he stays put." 
 

"Yes, Sergeant," came the translated voice, almost purring this time. 

 

The Zenobian seemed calm, as far as Brandy could tell, not that she had 

much practice reading the facial expressions of a scaled-down dinosaur. But the 
Gambolt was ready for anything, and that was all that mattered right at the 
moment. 
 

Brandy turned back to the desk clerk, who stood gaping at the scene in front 

of him. He wasn't alone; so were most of the customers. They'd come to the Fat 
Chance looking for excitement, but none of them had quite bargained for what 
they'd just seen. It was hard to tell whether they were favorably impressed or not. 
 

Brandy had other business to worry about. "Well, Junior, have you got that 

problem with the room fixed yet? Or do I tell the Gambolt she's sleeping with you 
tonight?" The clerk turned white, and frantically began punching keys again. 
 
"What the hell is going on here?" 
 

Lieutenant Armstrong looked at the supply depot, a hotel delivery bay 

modified to the Legion's specifications. The depot had looked perfectly ordinary 
when Armstrong had come by early that morning. Now, the entire area resembled 
an armed camp. There were cartons of field rations and heavy-machine oil piled up 
as barriers, with razor wire strung between them. Farther back was a bunker made 
of soap boxes, the peak of a helmet visible just above it. 
 

Despite himself, Armstrong felt a touch of pride that the Omega Mob could 

accomplish something so quickly. It had never been that way before Phule had 
arrived. 
 

"Halt and identify yourself," came a mechanical voice from behind the 

barbed wire barricade. "Keep your hands in sight, and make no sudden moves." 
 

"It's Armstrong," said the lieutenant, straining to see the speaker. "Louie, is 

that you? You know me, Louie. What's the situation here? It looks like you're ready 
for an invasion." 
 

"Do not approach closer," said the voice. "What is the password?" 

 

"Password?" Armstrong frowned. There'd been no password needed to 

enter the supply depot before-in fact, there'd been nothing to stop any curious 
passerby from walking up to it from the street beyond. Something must have 
changed. "Chocolate Harry, are you in there?" he called. Perhaps the supply 
sergeant would let him in and explain this strange game-whatever it was. 
 

"There is nobody named Chocolate Harry here," said the voice. "Do not 

approach closer, and keep your hands in sight." 
 

Armstrong raised his hands, putting his mouth within range of the wrist 

communicator. "Mother, there's something strange going on at supply," he said 
softly. "Can you patch me through to Chocolate Harry?" 
 

"If I can't do it, nobody can," said Mother's voice. "Keep your pants on, 

sonny, and we'll hook you right up." 

 

After a moment, another voice came through the speaker. "Who's there? 

Make it quick, I ain't got much time." 
 

"Harry, is that you? This is Armstrong. What in the world is going on here?" 

 

"You sound like Armstrong, all right, but I gotta be sure," said Chocolate 

Harry's voice. There was a brief hesitation, then "OK, who led the Galactic League 
in free flies last season?" 
 

"Huh?" Armstrong thought frantically. Finally he said, "I don't know. Harry, 

this is ridiculous-I don't know anything about gravball." 
 

"Hah! It's not gravball, it's scrumble. That's enough for me, though-you gotta 

be Armstrong. Ignorantest dude I ever saw when it comes to sports. What you 
want, Lieutenant?" 
 

"Harry, I'm right outside the supply depot. The place looks like a fortress. 

What are you guarding-chips from the casino?" 
 

"Right outside, hey? You see anybody suspicious out there, Armstrong?" 

 

"There's nobody here except me! Tell your guard to let me in-I'm on 

company business." 
 

"OK, Lieutenant, but hurry-and don't make any funny looking moves. Louie's 

got an itchy trigger appendage." 
 Lieutenant 

Armstrong 

stood up and smiled, waving to the Synthian on 

guard. He moved gingerly through the hastily implanted barriers outside the door to 
the supply depot, uncomfortably aware of Louie's shotgun aimed at him the entire 
time. Finally, he reached the door; it opened a crack and he saw the muzzle of a 
splat gun pointed at him briefly before the door opened wider to admit him. "Come 
on in, man, have a seat. Fix you a coffee?" Chocolate Harry said, beckoning; his 
gaze remained fixed on the area outside. Armstrong dashed through the door and 
plopped himself onto the proffered chair. 
 

"What the devil is going on here?" demanded Armstrong. "Are we expecting 

another raid from the Mob?" 
 

"No, worse than that," said Chocolate Harry, throwing a heavy metal bar into 

place across the door. "They've finally found me. I knew it was comin', I knew it all 
along. But they're not gonna just walk in and take me, Lieutenant. They got a fight 
on their hands if they try that." 
 

"What in the galaxy are you talking about?" demanded Armstrong. "Who are 

they, and why are they after you?" 
 

"It's a long story, Lieutenant," said Harry. "I'll give you the quick run-through. 

You know I used to ride with the Outlaws?" 
 

"Yes, of course, we've all heard the story," said Armstrong. 

 

"Well, then you know the part about me dissing the Renegades, right? The 

part where I got in so much trouble I had to run off and join the Legion-and before 
the captain took over this outfit, that was a mighty desperate thing to do." 
 

"Yes, I've heard that, too," Armstrong began. "The one thing..." 

 

Chocolate Harry interrupted him. "Well, man, my chicken's done come home 

to roost. The Renegades are here, and they're gonna fry me good and crisp. Ain't 
no mistake-Louie heard 'em talkin' to the captain, and he came here and told me 

right away." Harry was cleaning a Rolling Thunder automatic shotgun while he 
spoke; nervously peering out the slit between the boards he'd nailed over his 
window. 
 

"Well, if they're here, so be it," said Armstrong. "You know as well as I do 

that nobody can attack one of us without taking on the whole company. We're 
covering you, Harry. Anybody who thinks they can waltz in and take you has 
another think coming." 
 

"Well, I sure appreciate that, Lieutenant," said Chocolate Harry. "Can't 

blame a fella for taking a few precautions himself, though, can you? These 
Renegades are mean mothers." 
 

"Yes, I suppose I can't blame you-you'll have to make it a bit easier for the 

company to get its supplies, though. I'm sure the captain will help you figure 
something out. Still, there's one thing I don't understand." 
 

"Yeah? What's that?" 

 

"What in space did you do to the Renegades to make them pursue you 

halfway across the galaxy, years later, to get their revenge?" 
 

"What did I do? Man, I did the worst thing anybody could have done. There's 

not a biker alive who wouldn't feel the same way, if you told 'em." 
 

"And what was that?" 

 

"I messed with their bikes," said Chocolate Harry, and his voice was like the 

sound of doom. 
 
Phule burst into the Command and Communications Center like a man pursued by 
wolves-which, metaphorically at least, he was. "All right," he said, "I want to find out 
what's going on. Mother, how's the search for Sushi going?" 
 

"mgdkjgisd," said Rose, mumbling almost inaudibly. Brazen as she was over 

the comm, she went into shrinking violet mode when faced with the necessity for 
face-to-face communication. She scrunched down, as if to make herself invisible 
behind the communications console. 
 

"Oh, sorry, I almost forgot," said Phule, preparing to return to the hallway 

and resume the conversation via wrist communicator. 
 

"I can answer that, sir," said Beeker, rising from a desk to one side of the 

room, where he'd been using his Port-a-Brain pocket computer. "I've been 
monitoring the situation since we learned of it. To put it briefly, security has reason 
to believe that Sushi and the man he ran off with remained within the hotel-casino 
complex." 
 

"I heard the recording," said Phule. "It sounds as if the Yakuza have come to 

settle accounts with him. Somebody must have figured out that those tattoos he 
got aren't the real thing, and told the Japanese mob he was an impostor." 
 

"Yes, that's the impression I get," said Beeker. "In which case he may be in 

very bad trouble. Those people take their secret protocols very seriously, and it's 
no laughing matter for an outsider to impersonate one of them. That makes it even 
more imperative to find him." 
 

"They've checked Sushi's quarters, I assume? What about the other man's 

room?" 
 

"Sushi's quarters are empty, sir," said Beeker. "As for the other man, we've 

tried to match the images of him from the blackjack room surveillance cameras 
against the registration desk surveillance records-as you know, every guest's face 
is recorded as they are issued a room key. I fear there were no matches. Either he 
is a master of disguise-not impossible, if he is a Yakuza-or he is not a hotel guest." 
 

"Was the woman with him carrying any ID?" 

 

"Nothing traceable, sir," said Beeker, with a disappointed expression. 

"Lieutenant Rembrandt supervised the search, and she says she's never seen 
anyone so clean. You wouldn't think somebody in this day and age could have 
bought clothes, jewelry, accessories, and a purse full of odds and ends, without 
leaving any traces in the vendors' computer systems, or buying anything that would 
give away her origins. If necessary, security can run a more thorough search, and 
perhaps we'll find something then." 
 

"It'll be a waste of time," said Phule, shaking his head. "If she's gone to that 

length to conceal her identity, she's probably got the other bases covered. We'll do 
what we have to, though." 
 

"I agree, sir," said Beeker. "But we can safely leave those details to the 

experts. For now, I believe there's at least one piece of good news to report." 
 

"Well, it's about time-I was starting to think the day was going straight 

downhill," said Phule. "What's the good word?" 
 

"We have identified the unknown intruder, who turns out not to be an 

intruder at all, but a military observer. You will recall Flight Leftenant Qual, sir?" 
 

Phule's forehead wrinkled for a moment. "Qual, Qual-oh, yes, the Zenobian. 

General Blitzkrieg said Qual was going to be assigned to us as-say, that's right! 
You mean he's here? Where?" 
 

"Brandy and one of the Gambolts finally caught him, down by the front 

desk," said Beeker. "He was observing our readiness by pretending to infiltrate. 
Some of our people took that amiss-as I think you'll understand, sir. They're saying 
he's some kind of spy." 
 

"Well, no worry about that," said Phule. "The general sent him, so there's no 

question at all about his bona fides. Once our people know that, there won't be any 
problem." 
 

"Yes, sir," said Beeker, but he did not look convinced. "There's one other 

problem, sir. When Brandy was trying to place the female Gambolt in a private 
room, there seemed to be a question about your credit." 
 

"That can't be," said Phule. "We own the hotel, you know. They don't tell the 

owner his credit's no good-especially not when he's covering his account with a 
Dilithium Express card." 
 

"That's precisely what the difficulty is," said Beeker. 

 

"It looks as if there is a problem with your Dilithium Express card. And 

unless something very unusual has happened to the financial markets while we 
weren't looking, that is impossible." 
 

 
 4 
Journal #294 
 

"The very rich, " someone once said, "are not like you and me. " Someone 

wiser than he knew replied to this, "Yes, they have more money. " My employer 
was very rich, and in that fact lies much of the secret of his success. 
 

Where other commanding officers might have had many of the ideas that 

allowed Captain Phule to turn his Legionnaire company into an elite unit-housing 
them in first-class accommodations, giving them training facilities of the newest 
and finest quality, serving them meals of which a four-star restaurant would not be 
ashamed-only a very rich man would have had the ability to put those ideas into 
action without concerning himself with the military bean counters' objections. A 
man who can wave a Dilithium Express card and say "Put it on my account" can 
accomplish many extraordinary things. 
 

So when a junior hotel clerk, making a routine charge against the card, was 

told that there was a problem with the credit, it threatened to bring down the entire 
structure my employer had so carefully erected. Worse yet, it suggested that 
someone very powerful indeed had entered the field against him... 
 
"To sabotage a Dilithium Express account is no small feat," said Nakadate. He and 
Sushi sat in a vacant cubicle in the Fat Chance Hotel's business annex, an amenity 
provided by the hotel but rarely used by the vacationing gamblers. 
 

"You've seen merely the tip of the blade," said Sushi. He put down the 

vidphone set he had used to hack Phule's account. "Freezing the account is only 
the start. If I want to, I can transfer funds out, then leave the account so nobody 
can even tell it's been hacked, let alone how or by whom. Is this not a talent our 
families could make use of?" 
 

"I have seen these things done before, but never so quickly. And never 

without much more elaborate hardware." The Yakuza man's face bore an 
expression of grudging respect. The two men spoke in low voices-though it was 
unlikely that anyone overhearing would understand Japanese. 
 

"The kind of hardware you're talking about is bulky, and it is a red flag if the 

wrong people know you have it," said Sushi, leaning back in his chair. "Everyone's 
eyes are on the man with a sword, while the unarmed man draws no notice. The 
fools forget that bare hands are deadly, too." 
 

"Spoken like a ninja," said Nakadate. Then his brows creased. "But why 

have you put yourself in my hands? Knowing that you can do this, and that you are 
willing to betray your own captain, why should I not kill you before you turn this skill 
against me and my family?" 
 

"A wise man does not break his sword because a fool has cut himself with 

his own blade," said Sushi calmly. "I will assume that you-and whoever may have 
sent you-are wise enough to see my value. If you do not, I am in no more danger 
than before, when you were ready to treat me as an impostor." 
 

"I was surprised that you knew the passwords," admitted Nakadate. "No 

impostor could have known the signal you gave. On the other hand, we have not 
been able to verify your claim to be one of us. I am still not certain what to do with 
you." 
 

Sushi spread his hands and gave a shrug. "Is it necessary to do anything at 

all with me? And even if it is, why are you the one who must decide?" 
 

"I am sent by the family on Burning Tree, which has jurisdiction over this 

sector. For my misdeeds, they have given me the burden of solving the enigma 
your existence poses. It is tempting to take the easy road-but as you note, you may 
be an asset not easily replaced." 
 

"And what if I can lift this burden from your back?" said Sushi. A hint of a 

smile played around the corners of his eyes, but it did not extend so far as his 
mouth. 
 

If Nakadate noticed it, he gave no sign. "My back is strong," he said. 

"Therein lies much of my usefulness to the families." 
 

"It is good to inure yourself to difficult work," observed Sushi. "It is not so 

good to make your work more difficult than it needs to be." 
 

"That is often true," said Nakadate. "But to put it directly, I see no way to 

solve this problem without causing other, perhaps worse, problems. Perhaps it is 
best for me to watch and wait for a while." 
 

"Perhaps," agreed Sushi. "But what I have in mind would make even that 

unnecessary." 
 

"Perhaps," said the Yakuza man. "I will tell you, though, I am nicknamed 

`The Mule'. My brothers chose that name with excellent reason." 
 

"You are justly proud of it," said Sushi, not smiling at all. "But let me tell you 

what I propose, and then you will be in a position to make up your own mind. First, 
I think you need to know that..." 
 

Sushi talked for quite some time, and by the time he was done, Nakadate, 

who had begun listening with a very skeptical expression, was wide-eyed. 
 
"Excuse me, son, do you have a minute to talk?" 
 

The young Legionnaire looked up to see a man in a black jumpsuit and dark 

sunglasses his hair combed back in a thick pompadour with long sideburns. 
Spotting the Legion insignia at the collar, he relaxed. "Sure, I guess so," he said. "I 
go on casino duty in half an hour, but until then I'm free. What can I do for you?" 
 

"Well, I reckon the shoe's on the other foot, young fella," said the newcomer. 

"I'm assigned to this here outfit, and I need to find out just where and how I can be 
of most use. The name's Rev." He extended a hand and the young Legionnaire 
shook it. "What's your handle, son?" 
 

"You can call me Gears," said the young Legionnaire. "Mechanic's mate first 

class is my rating, and I'm pretty good at it, if I have to say so myself." 
 

"Good, good, a fella should take pride in his work," said Rev, rubbing his 

hands together. "I take a lot of pride in my work, too. That's why I was so pleased 
to be assigned to this company-your captain's gettin' quite a reputation for findin' 
fresh answers to old problems, and I'm the same sort of guy." 

 

"That's good to hear," said Gears. His eyes fell on the other insignia on 

Rev's collar, indicating the wearer's specialty-astylized musical instrument of 
antique design. He seemed to remember it was called an "eclectic gutter," or 
something of the sort. "What's your line, Rev? I don't recall what that particular 
insignia means. You aren't a musician, are you?" 
 

Rev responded with a low chuckle. "In a sense I am, son-I play sweet music 

for the soul. But that's just the insignia for my particular denomination. I'm your new 
chaplain. Now, you know that means I serve the whole company-Christian, Jew, 
Greater Holistic, Pagan, Muslim, Anti-Norfian-all can come to me for advice or 
consolation. Back home, my denomination is Church of the New Revelation, which 
some call Church of the King." 
 

"I guess that makes sense," said Gears politely. "Now, what was it you said 

you wanted to talk about?" 
 

"Why, I need to know what your troubles are," said Rev. He squatted down 

next to Gears, bringing his face level with his listener's. "Your troubles in particular, 
and the troubles other folks are having. 'Cause that's my mission here-to help you 
all with your troubles." 
 

Gears smiled wearily. "Well, I guess I know what my biggest trouble is, but I 

doubt there's much you can do to help with it." 
 

"You'd be surprised, son," said Rev. "The King saw more trouble than you 

and I will ever know, and yet he rose above it and raised his voice for the world to 
hear-until he had to Leave the Building. Tell me what bothers you, and if there's a 
way to fix it, we can find that way-you, me, and especially Him." 
 

"Well, I guess you could say I'm unlucky, Rev. That about sums it up." 

 

"Well, we're all a bit unlucky sometimes, aren't we? But anybody's luck can 

change. We can all make a comeback and be bigger than ever, the way the King 
himself did." 
 

"Well, I'd sure like that," said Gears. "But I'm afraid it'll take a big comeback 

to get me out of the hole I'm in." 
 

Gears paused and looked Rev up and down; evidently satisfied with what he 

saw, he continued, "When we came to Lorelei, all the guys were excited-not just 
me. We'd been stuck on a backwater world where there wasn't any real action, and 
now we figured we could build up a bit of a nest egg for after the service, y'know? 
And when the captain brought in all those professional gamblers to show us their 
tricks, we figured we couldn't be beat. So naturally, when we're off duty, a lot of us 
wander over to one of the casinos and give it a whirl-at blackjack, or craps, or 
poker, or magic-any game that gives a guy a chance. We know enough to lay off 
the slots, or superstring roulette." 
 

Rev nodded solemnly. "I know what you mean, son. The King Himself spent 

many years in the casinos, and was faced with great temptation every day." 
 

The young legionnaire nodded, not really listening. "Anyhow, it isn't as easy 

as it looks. It all seems pretty clear when you've got a pro there, showing you how 
to spot tricks and how to figure odds, but when the chips start piling up on the 
table, it's not easy to think straight. We've been here seven Standard months, and 

I've probably lost four months' pay. Some guys are willing to front a few bucks, so 
I'm not hurting too bad. Besides, the Legion covers food and housing and all the 
stuff you need to get along. But I sure could use a change of luck to get my head 
back above water." 
 

"Well, that's something to think about," said Rev, standing up straight again. 

"I reckon the King would understand that kind of thing from his days as a common 
soldier, like any other boy called to service. I can see there's plenty of good work I 
can do here, and now I've got an idea where it might start. Thank you, son-we'll be 
talking again." 
 

"Thanks, uh-Rev," said the Legionnaire. "If your King can do anything to 

change somebody's luck, there'll be a lot of fellows mighty obliged to him." 
 

"I'll take it up with Him," said Rev with a deep chuckle. "I sure will, son." 

 
Journal #298 
 

One of my employer's primary qualifications for a position of command was 

his ability to project absolute confidence when it was time for an important 
decision. He did not always possess this confidence in private. Waiting with me for 
a court-martial to decide on his punishment for ordering a strafing run on a peace 
conference, he had been as nervous as a new recruit who feared that an inspector 
would deny him leave because his bed-making skills were deficient. 
 

But whatever indecision he felt in private-or in my company, which 

amounted to the same thing-he had learned not to show it to subordinates. And 
now, when there seemed to be half a dozen crises coming to a head at once, I 
thought the time was more than ripe for him to take the bit in his teeth. 
 

Thus, I was not surprised when he took me aside and began to talk through 

appropriate responses to his current problems. What did surprise me was his 
perception of the relative priority to be assigned to each of them. Needless to say, 
it differed considerably from mine... 
 
Phule looked around the room at the four others there-his brain trust, a politician 
might have called it. There were his three direct subordinates in the chain of 
command: Lieutenants Rembrandt and Armstrong, and Top Sergeant Brandy, as 
well as his butler and personal confidant, Beeker. Beeker was perhaps the 
captain's most valuable asset-not only on account of his complete detachment from 
military matters, but because of his ability to go anywhere and speak to anyone in 
absolute confidence. The troops knew he wouldn't snitch, and so they told him 
everything. 
 

Phule got straight to the point. "As you all know, there's trouble brewing in 

several areas at once. Let me make this clear at the outset: There's nothing 
happening that we can't handle-in fact, taken singly, none of these problems is any 
great threat to the company." 
 

"I'm glad to hear that, sir," said Lieutenant Armstrong. "It's been a very 

confusing day." 
 

"Confusing ain't the word for it," said Brandy, who'd been in the thick of the 

action all afternoon. "Between Sushi going AWOL, the Zenobian playing spy, and 
the FUBAR at the hotel desk, I've had my hands full. And now I have to break in 
these recruits-though the Gambolts shouldn't be much trouble." 
 

"Those aren't the worst problems," said Armstrong. He somehow managed 

to maintain an exemplary posture even sitting in an easy chair. "Chocolate Harry's 
digging in for a siege. Unless he's gone completely off the beam, I think we're 
going to see some fighting." 
 

"Oh, C.H. has a phobia about those bikers," said Rembrandt, scoffing. "A 

few legionnaires should be enough to brush them aside." 
 

"Take a walk down to supply depot and you'll change that tune," retorted 

Armstrong. "From the way Harry's fortified the place, he's not expecting us to brush 
them aside, and I think he knows what he's up against." 
 

"Well, he did ride with the Outlaws," agreed Brandy. "If somebody's put a 

scare into him, I won't take 'em too lightly. But this isn't a street fight, here. Those 
bikers are on course to do battle with the best damn Legion company I've ever 
seen. Unless they've brought a few hundred armed Renegades onto the station 
with them, I can't see how they pose any real threat." 
 

"The threat isn't to us, but to our operation," Phule pointed out. "Good as 

they may be at street fighting, it'd be suicide for them to meet us in a pitched battle. 
But we can't carry on combat operations in the middle of an entertainment complex 
without serious consequences. An occasional fistfight or two is inevitable in any 
place that serves liquor. But I don't want to try to tell a court-martial how the 
casino's customers-civilians-were caught in a cross fire between my troops and an 
attacking biker gang." 
 

"No argument with that," said Brandy. "So if we can't outgun 'em, what do 

we do? I hear they've been nursing this grudge for years-and they wanted Harry's 
hide bad enough to spring for space-liner tickets to one of the most expensive 
resorts in the galaxy when they found out he was here. If they're that mad, we 
aren't going to buy 'em off just by having Harry come out and say, `Sorry, guys, it 
won't happen again.'" 
 

"Oh, I agree," said Phule. "But let's put this problem aside for a minute. It's 

one of several things we're looking at here, and I think we need to go after them in 
the right order. Once we've got the first couple of pieces in place, the rest of the 
puzzle will sort itself out." 
 

"That's as good an approach as any," said Rembrandt, who had shown in 

Phule's absence her ability to make tough decisions under pressure. "Where do we 
start? C.H. and the Renegades? Sushi's disappearance? The Zenobian spy?" 
 

"The Renegades are the big problem," said Armstrong bluntly. "If we don't 

shut them down, they're likely to start shooting." 
 

"I'm not so sure," said Rembrandt, knitting her brows. "If Sushi is 

collaborating with the Yakuza, he could give them a lot of dangerous information. 
He could be the brightest man in the company, and I wouldn't be surprised if he 
understands a lot of what goes on at the command level without having been told. 
If he decided to sell us out, he'd be extremely dangerous." 

 

"Dangerous? Hell, I'll tell you about dangerous," said Brandy. "That Qual 

may be a spy or he may not, but he's got half the troops convinced he is. That's no 
good for morale. You'd be smart to send him off somewhere where he can't do any 
harm-and where the troops won't be worried he's going to stab them in the back." 
 

Beeker raised his hand and said, diffidently, "Sir, if I may be so forward, I 

would suggest that the difficulties with the Dilithium Express account ought to take 
precedence over all other problems. The person capable of manipulating that 
account is by a substantial margin your most dangerous adversary." 
 

"That's a good point, Beeker," said Phule. The others in the room nodded. 

Despite Beeker's admitted ignorance of military matters, his grasp of broader 
issues had earned him their respect. He offered his opinion infrequently, but when 
he chose to do so, he was listened to. 
 

"It's a very good point," Phule continued, "but I suspect it'll resolve itself in 

due time. Meanwhile, you're all overlooking our real mission." 
 

"Say again, Captain?" asked Brandy. She had long ago come to the 

conclusion that Phule had memorized all the military textbooks ever written, and 
was systematically breaking every rule contained in them. His resounding success 
was proof positive that all those rules were utter nonsense. But of course, every 
sergeant knew that already. That didn't mean they didn't have to be enforced, of 
course. When you'd gotten your people trained to do exactly what you said, even 
though they all knew it was completely senseless, then you could get them to fight 
for you. Military organizations had worked that way since the dawn of time. 
Sometimes Brandy suspected that by the time Phule was finished, even that 
central tenet of the military might be revised... 
 

She realized that the pause had been growing uncomfortably long, and that 

Phule was looking at her with expectation on his face. "Sergeant, we have new 
recruits," he said. "Don't you think you need to get busy showing them how we do 
things in the Legion?" 
 

Armstrong was flabbergasted. "Sir, do you really intend to ignore these 

crises? Any one of them could destroy everything we're doing here." 
 

"I don't intend to ignore them, Armstrong," Phule said quietly. "But unless 

everything goes wrong at once, these crises will be over in a matter of days. Our 
recruits will be with us a good deal longer than that-possibly for the rest of their 
careers. The continued success of this company depends on how well we train 
them. Lucky for us, we've gotten hold of them before they've been set on the wrong 
path by some other outfit." 
 

"Captain, does that include the Gambolts?" asked Brandy. She'd seen 

Garbo capture the fleeing Zenobian, almost without effort. The Gambolt had been 
uncannily agile-and faster than any human she'd ever seen. "Everybody knows 
they're the best hand-to-hand fighters in the galaxy... 
 

"They may be Gambolts, but they're untrained Gambolts, Brandy," said 

Phule patiently. "You should know that training is the difference between a military 
force and a mob. We've made our reputation by making great legionnaires out of 
other outfits' rejects. Now we've finally got a chance to train our people from the 

ground up. Why don't we all get to work turning them into legionnaires?" 
 "Yes, 

sir!" 

exclaimed 

Armstrong. 

His expression suggested that he 

disagreed with Phule's priorities, but he was too good an officer to say so out loud. 
Besides, Phule's decisions had a way of turning out right, despite the odds. He 
hoped the odds hadn't finally caught up with them... 
 
"Great Gazma, it is a pleasure your acquaintance to make again, Captain Clown!" 
 

Flight Leftenant Qual looked elegant in his custom-made black dress 

uniform. Except for his height-a bit under one meter tall-he might well have been a 
regular Legion officer. Of course, the Fat Chance Casino's four-star dining room 
had not had any trouble seating the diminutive alien. Their stock in trade was their 
ability to seat and feed a member of any known civilized race. Given that this was 
their first visit by a Zenobian, they had done remarkably well-a hammocklike device 
adapted one of their regular, armchairs to fit him very comfortably. 
 

"I have to admit it was a pleasant surprise when I learned that it was you 

who was being assigned to my unit as a military observer," said Phule. He did not 
normally eat at the casino's elite restaurant, although of course as majority owner it 
was his right-and would have cost him nothing. But Mess Sergeant Escrima was 
every bit as good a cook as the Fat Chance's master chef, and Phule could settle 
down to a meal of Escrima's cooking with far less fuss and expenditure of working 
time-he could sit there reading a report, or carry his plate over to another table to 
talk with his people without causing a disturbance. Nor was there any problem 
getting seconds... 
 

But tonight was a special occasion: Phule and his officers were formally 

welcoming the Zenobian visitor, and it seemed appropriate to put on a bit of extra 
formality. The gleaming silverware, snowy-white linen, bone china and twenty-page 
wine list might not impress Qual in the same way they would a human visitor, but 
the little alien could easily recognize that he was being given a first-class reception 
by his hosts. 
 

And, in fact, Qual was evidently enjoying himself. He sloshed a generous 

dollop of wasabi on a bit of tuna rolled in seaweed and popped it in his mouth. It 
had been agreed after a hasty conference that seeing the Zenobian bolting down 
live food-his race's normal fare-might disconcert the other customers (not to 
mention his tablemates). But the chef was resourceful, and Qual had been 
perfectly willing to compromise on raw fish for the occasion-"After all, a soldier 
must accustom himself to hardship," he had said, with what the translator chose to 
render as a chuckle. Noting Armstrong's struggles to get the food past his nose, 
Phule decided it was a chuckle. Lieutenant Armstrong was not an adventurous 
man, especially when it came to eating. 
 

"I hope you and, your troops have pardoned my little prank this afternoon," 

said Qual, his translated voice coming through with a remarkably polished accent 
for all its occasional bizarre word-choices. "One of the first things one would like to 
grasp about unfamiliar troops is their reaction to the unexpected, and immediately 
upon arrival, before anyone knows what is occurring, is a splendid opening to 

observe this." 
 

"Undoubtedly," said Lieutenant Armstrong, staring at his plate with the 

expression of a man who was wishing for a medium-rare deluxe plasmaburger with 
a side of vege-chips. "However, it would have been considerate to alert the 
commander as to your intentions, if no one else." 
 

"Captain Clown was notified that I was to be assigned to his company, is 

that not exact?" said Qual, looking at Phule. 
 

"Yes, of course I was notified," said Phule. "General Blitzkrieg informed me 

some time back." 
 

"And he made my mission transparent?" 

 

Phule had to think for a beat before answering, "Yes, it was quite clear. You 

were coming to study our tactics...and ethics, I believe the general said. Now that I 
think about it, I'm not certain I entirely understood that last part." 
 

"Ah, but is it not self-evident, Captain Clown? Our races seek to conclude a 

treaty, and of course this would be a good thing. But we Zenobians want to know 
with whom we are about to treat, and what they are likely to do, and even more 
serious, whether they are likely to do what they say they will do. So I have come to 
study your company to learn all these things." 
 

It was impossible to read Qual's expression, and the translator was shaky at 

rendering the nuances of his tone. Phule wondered suddenly what would happen if 
Qual reported that the humans were untrustworthy. That was a sobering thought. 
Any number of very unpleasant results might follow a very simple 
misunderstanding with this alien envoy... He began to wonder if General Blitzkrieg 
had somehow manipulated him into this situation. 
 

Rembrandt had picked up the same train of thought. She paused with her 

wineglass in midair and asked, "Flight Leftenant, does this mean that your report 
on our company is going to determine whether or not your people will sign a treaty 
with us?" 
 

The Zenobian gulped down another chunk of raw seafood-his teeth were 

undeniably formidable-looking-and said, equably, "To be sure, Lieutenant, we 
place great gravity on trust and ethics. Of course, I am but one observer; there are 
others visiting your leaders in trade, in political realms-it is of importance that we 
know enough to decide wisely. Of course, it was felicitous that Captain Clown was 
the first of your species to meet us-his generosity opened the dining coop for what 
we hope will continue to be a very beneficial relationship." He popped a handful of 
shrimp into his mouth and grinned-at least Phule hoped it was a grin. Except for his 
impeccably fitted Legion uniform, the alien resembled nothing quite so much as a 
miniature allosaur. The display of all those teeth might mean anything at all. 
 

But Qual's stated intentions were benign, and he was an official envoy of his 

species. Until there was evidence to the contrary, Phule and his officers would 
have to take him at his word. Even if Qual's table manners were not exactly 
comfortable to observe at close range... 
 
The dinner had left Phule very satisfactorily fed-along with a couple of glasses of 

excellent wine (Boordy Grand Cru Blanc, of an excellent vintage). It would have 
been tempting, after his event-filled day, for the captain to make an early night of it. 
But he had promised his officers he was not going to neglect the looming crises. 
He'd stop off in Comm Central, find out if there had been any new developments, 
and then see if he had any bright ideas for dealing with them. 
 

He had turned down the corridor to his destination and gone half a dozen 

strides when a voice from a shadowed alcove whispered to him: "Captain!" 
 

Phule turned and peered into the shadows, where a slim figure in civilian 

clothes lurked. "Sushi!" he said, anger in his voice. "What's going on? Do you know 
what's been happening around here?" 
 

"Some of it, sure, Captain," said Sushi, putting a finger to his lips. "Keep it 

down, though-we haven't got time to get anyplace more private, and if the wrong 
people overhear me, I'm in deep kimchee." 
 

"Some of us are beginning to think you're the wrong people," growled Phule, 

but he stepped into the alcove and lowered his voice. "Tell me everything-and it 
better be good." 
 

"It is good, Captain, very good," said Sushi, but there was a worried look on 

his face. "You've heard about the couple that came to the casino this afternoon?" 
 

"Yes. We still have the woman in custody, last I heard." 

 

"Oh, yeah," said Sushi. "That reminds me, you can let her go now." 

 

"I suppose you've got a good reason for that," Phule said, looking skeptical. 

 

"Sure, Captain. But let me start at the beginning. You remember how when I 

got these Yakuza tattoos you were all worried about what would happen if a real 
Yakuza member showed up?" 
 

Phule nodded. "I gather that's what happened today." 

 

"Right. But there's more to it than a family member just showing up," said 

Sushi. "Somebody here tipped them off about me. In fact, the guy came looking for 
me, ready to rearrange my internal organs into some nonfunctional pattern if he 
found out I was bogus." 
 

"Which of course you were," Phule pointed out. "Your internal organs 

appear still to be functioning-although I can rearrange them myself, if it seems 
necessary. For now, I'm still neutral on the subject. What did you say to him?" 
 

Sushi gulped, then managed a sheepish grin. "Well, Captain, you remember 

how I told you that my family maintains certain business connections-strictly for 
informational purposes? After you convinced me that what I was doing might be 
more dangerous than I had anticipated, I called home and got one of my uncles to 
dig up some information for me. Specifically, he gave me a few names and 
passwords that only somebody very high in a family would know." 
 

"I hope he didn't have to pay too high a price for them," said Phule. "That 

kind of information can be very dangerous to use. Especially if you aren't 
absolutely certain of its reliability." 
 

Sushi nodded, soberly. "Believe me, Captain, I knew that. But I figured that 

once somebody showed up looking for me-which was inevitable if we stayed here 
more than a couple of months-I was already in major trouble for impersonating a 

member of the families. Using the wrong password couldn't get me any deader. So 
I had to take the gamble." 
 

"Someday that gambling fever's going to get you into real trouble," said 

Phule, shaking his head. "So you had these passwords-what then?" 
 

"Well, you probably heard that the guy started a brawl in the casino. He'd 

picked a spot where I'd be among the ones responding, and he and the woman 
with him started cheating blatantly. When Moustache tried to put the pinch on 
them, they went into combat mode-but I was the real target. When I realized what 
was happening, I showed him a password, actually a sort of recognition sign." 
Sushi made a quick gesture with his hand, then continued, "At first the guy-his 
name is Nakadate, not that that'll mean anything to you-at first he was suspicious, 
but combined with some fast talking, the fact that I knew the sign convinced him 
that we needed to go off someplace to talk without the whole casino watching us. 
So we told the woman to wait for us, and we went to talk." 
 

"That's the first smart thing you've told me-at least there was some sort of 

hostage for your safety. Going off to someplace private with the enemy is a quick 
way to get yourself killed." Phule sighed. It was a relief to see Sushi still alive and 
kicking; he had begun to fear the worst. But now he had to figure out what was 
really going on-unless, for once, Sushi was actually telling him the whole truth. 
 

Sushi grunted. "Captain, I hate to tell you this, but if he was going to kill me, 

the hostage wouldn't have made any difference. Once Nakadate turned her over to 
the guards, she was on her own and she knew it. Besides, I doubt she has any 
information that would help you if something did happen to me." 
 

"Well, that figures," said Phule. "Security tells me she's not carrying anything 

that gives even a hint to her origins-unless she grew up in a spaceport 
convenience shop. And she's playing it like a complete innocent. All we have on 
her is the blackjack cheating-but we can make that stick, if we need to. Why should 
we let her go?" 
 

"Because she really doesn't know anything, and because some of our 

people could get hurt if she decides to make a break for it. I've seen her fight. 
She's not worth the risk. Sir." 
 

Phule rubbed his chin. "Hmmm-maybe that makes sense, but I'll have to 

think about it a little longer. Let's get back to the Yakuza. What did you and 
Nakadate talk about when you went off alone?" 
 

"Well, sir, I thought I could convince him I was a legitimate member of a 

family he didn't know. That's the way the Yakuza is organized-there's no one 
central authority. But he wasn't ready to buy that without corroborating evidence. 
He wanted to know what I was doing in the Space Legion, instead of helping out in 
my family's business. And so I had to convince him I was stealing from you." 
 

"Stealing from me!" Phule bellowed, grabbing Sushi by the shirt front. "Are 

you the one who's been monkeying around with my credit account?" 
 

Sushi put a finger to his lips. "Calm down, Captain," he said quietly. "What if 

Nakadate brought along more backup than he's told me? I had to convince him I 
was stealing from you, but that doesn't mean I really was. Your money's protected 

better than an emperor's favorite daughter-you ought to know that." 
 

"All I know is that my Dilithium Express account was frozen this afternoon," 

growled Phule. "If that was your doing..." 
 

"Of course it was my doing," said Sushi. His voice was calm, but he spoke 

quickly, as if to forestall objections. "Look, Captain, I'm on your side-would I be 
telling you about this if I wasn't? I'd transfer as much as I could to my own accounts 
and get on the fastest spaceliner out of here. Besides, think of the possibilities. If I 
can hack your account, I can hack an enemy's account, too. If the other guy's 
troops aren't getting paid, or his supply orders aren't getting filled, that gives you a 
pretty big edge over him, doesn't it?" 
 

"So why didn't you tell me about this before you went and did it?" Phule 

demanded. 
 

"Because if you knew somebody could do it, you'd probably set up 

safeguards against it. It's what I'd have done if it were my account. And if you'd 
gone and done that, I might not have been able to convince Nakadate I was 
crooked. Besides, it's fixed, now, Captain. Check it-if there's a millicredit missing, 
you can take it out of my hide." 
 

"Maybe I ought to do that anyhow," said Phule with a calculating stare. "Why 

couldn't you think up some less drastic way to keep the Yakuza off your back?" 
 

"Because I saw an opportunity I couldn't turn down, Captain," said the young 

legionnaire. "I'd been thinking for some time what I'd do if somebody from the 
Yakuza ever showed up. We aren't talking a bunch of street-corner thugs here; 
these people take a very long view. Nakadate saw that my ability to hack your 
account made me dangerous to his family, too-he was thinking about finishing me 
off right then and there. I had to sell him the idea that I'm too important an asset to 
throw away. So I made him think I'm working for a super-family-somebody above 
everybody's head." 
 

Phule looked skeptical. "I thought you said there wasn't any overall Yakuza 

organization-only the separate families." 
 

"That's right, Captain," said Sushi. "At least, there hasn't been before now. I 

invented it just today." 
 

"And you expect him to believe that? What happens when he checks back 

with his family and finds out you're pulling his leg?" 
 

"I'm about to take care of that," said Sushi. "I need to use the comm center 

gear to get a message to my family. They're going to plant the rumor that there is a 
superfamily, working to make the Yakuza more powerful and profitable than ever. 
As I said, these people take the long view. If they think it's to their long-term 
advantage, they'll play along." 
 

Phule stared at Sushi for a moment, thinking. "Maybe they will. But when 

they learn your super-family is phony as a Vegan kilobuck, what then? They'll be 
after you again, and this time you won't be able to talk your way out of it." 
 

Sushi grinned broadly. "Ah, but it won't turn out to be phony, Captain. You 

see, that's the beautiful part of this scam. We're going to take over the Yakuza! 
Now, let's go down to Comm Central and get the ball rolling." 

 

He started off down the corridor. For once completely speechless, Phule 

followed him. 
 
 
 5 
A hell of a place to hold a formation, thought Brandy, looking at the Grand Ballroom 
of the Fat Chance Casino Hotel. In front of her, over a dozen rookie Space 
Legionnaires stood at attention on the dance floor-three of them Gambolts. They 
had been aroused by automated early-morning wake-up calls from the hotel's 
central computer, for this, their first training session with Omega Company. A 
variety of exercise equipment had been brought in from the hotel's fitness center 
(an amenity that the visiting gamblers largely ignored). This session had been 
designed to incorporate physical training as much as basic indoctrination in military 
discipline. 
 

Brandy stared at them with frank curiosity; it was unusual for the company to 

get recruits who hadn't already come through boot camp, learning the ropes of how 
to be a legionnaire-and, for the most part, convincing their drill instructors that they 
didn't have what it took. Or that they had an attitude that would make them a 
problem wherever they went. That was the raw material that had gone to make up 
the Omega Mob, and it had made the company the butt of every Legion joke-until 
Phule came, and showed that even the ugliest ducklings could grow up into 
something unexpected. 
 

Could this crop of new recruits represent a change of course for Omega? 

Had the company's success under its new commander convinced the brass to start 
sending a better quality of raw material? Or had these newcomers somehow been 
diagnosed as likely misfits and malcontents even before they'd put on uniforms? 
Well, it didn't really matter. Whatever this crop of rookies had been before they got 
here, it was Brandy's job to make them into legionnaires. Might as well get started, 
she thought. If it's going to be bad news, waiting to fund it out won't make it any 
better. 
 

"All right, rookies, listen up," she said, stepping forward and raising her 

voice to a penetrating bark. "You aren't going to like a lot of what's going to happen 
here, but I don't care whether you like it or not. It's my job to make you into Space 
Legionnaires, and I'll do it if I have to kill half of you. Do you understand that?" 
 

The troops responded with a general murmur of acquiescence, certainly 

nothing approaching enthusiasm. 
 

"What did you say?" Brandy demanded, at the top of her lungs. This was an 

old drill-instructor's game. Usually somebody would get flustered enough to say 
something she could take as an excuse for a first-class chewing out. Even an 
innocent reply would do-the point was to show the recruits that they were in a new 
environment, where rank and discipline and the rules were what mattered. Even if 
the recruits thought the rules were stupid (which they often were, given the quality 
of the Space Legion's top brass in recent decades), they were going to have to 
learn to pay them lip service. Eventually they'd figure out where the loopholes were 

so they could get through their hitches without being miserable the entire time. 
When push came to shove, a clever, resourceful legionnaire who could break the 
rules without getting caught was better to have in your outfit than a mindless rule-
follower. But to get that kind of legionnaire, you had to start off by enforcing the 
rules with an iron hand. 
 

"Well, Sergeant, we all said different things," said one man in the front row-a 

young, round-faced human, slightly below average height, with a bit of a potbelly. 
The recruit had an earnest expression, and the kind of patient smile a schooldroid 
might be programmed to use while teaching a slow class. 
 

Well, it wasn't an ideal point of departure for a tirade, but it'd have to do. 

"You, there, what's your name?" Brandy snapped. 
 

"Mahatma, Sergeant," said the recruit, still smiling. Brandy was disappointed 

that he didn't make the common rookie mistake of forgetting to call her "Sergeant," 
or the worse mistake of calling her "sir." But she'd have to make do with what she 
got. That was one of Phule's principles, too. 
 

"And what the hell do you think is so funny, Mahatma?" said Brandy, 

stepping forward to confront the recruit face-to-face. 
 

"Funny isn't quite the right word, Sergeant," said Mahatma, still smiling 

dreamily. "Everything here is so...transitory." 
 

"Transitory?" Brandy hadn't heard that one before, and for a moment it 

caught her off her guard. 
 

"Yes, Sergeant," said Mahatma. "We see things in such a short perspective, 

don't you agree? What's here today will be gone tomorrow, and we along with it. 
So why get disturbed at any of it? All will pass." 
 

"Is that what you think?" snarled Brandy, moving to within inches of 

Mahatma's face. This usually had the effect of making even a tough case nervous, 
but Mahatma didn't even flinch. "You might have on a Legion uniform, but you look 
like a civilian and you talk like one. Maybe you should get down on the floor and do 
some push-ups for me-say about a hundred, for starters. That ought to give you 
the long perspective. And we'll see whether that smile's still there when you finish. 
Do it now!" 
 

"Yes, Sergeant," said Mahatma, still smiling as he got down on his hands 

and knees. "Do you want a hundred exactly, or will an approximation suffice?" 
 

"I said a hundred and I meant it," said Brandy. "I want to see that back 

straight, rookie. And if you stick your fat civilian butt up in the air, I promise you I'll 
kick it. Do you hear me?" 
 

"Yes, Sergeant," said Mahatma, looking up at her. "Thank you for giving me 

the chance to make myself stronger." 
 

"Get going!" shouted Brandy, who was starting to feel as annoyed as she 

was pretending to be. Mahatma started doing push-ups. Very slowly and calmly, 
without looking up and without bending his waist. There was a patter of laughter 
from the ranks. Brandy glared at them. "So, you think it's funny, hey? OK, all of 
you-a hundred push-ups! Now!" 
 

The recruits scrambled onto their hands and started doing push-ups. Most 

of them were nowhere near as calm as Mahatma. That was good-they would make 
better targets than the unflappable Mahatma. The morning was finally promising to 
go as she'd planned it. "Keep those backs straight!" she yelled, at nobody in 
particular, and began looking for someone to make an example of. 
 

"Excuse me, Sergeant, what shall we do now?" 

 

Brandy recognized the translator's intonations even as she turned to see the 

three Gambolts standing behind her in a group. She frowned. "Push-ups," she 
said. "One hundred push-ups. That order was for you, too." 
 

"Yes, Sergeant," said Rube. "We did one hundred push-ups. What should 

we do while the humans are finishing?" 
 

"You did the hundred? That's impossible," said Brandy. She looked at her 

watch; it had been less than two minutes since she'd ordered the squad to do 
push-ups. Her frown got deeper. "You must be doing them wrong. Show me how 
you do push-ups." 
 

"Yes, Sergeant," said the Gambolts in chorus, and all three began doing 

push-ups in unison-at something like two per second, with straight backs, full arm 
extension, chests brushing the floor without resting there...Brandy watched in 
fascination while the three Gambolts blew off another hundred. They weren't even 
breathing hard. Behind them, the human recruits were floundering through the 
routine, most of them barely halfway to their quota. She knew from experience that 
most of them wouldn't be able to reach it. 
 

A second glance showed her Mahatma, still doing his push-ups very slowly 

and calmly, as if he had no other concern in the world. He wasn't breathing hard 
either. Right then, Brandy decided that this had to be the weirdest training squad 
she'd ever seen. At least, the Gambolts weren't going to be a problem, she 
decided. And with their example, maybe the rest would shape up even faster. 
 

She didn't realize until a good bit later that the Gambolts' example might not 

have the effect she anticipated. 
 
"Live chicken?" Escrima wrinkled his nose fastidiously. "Sure-it'll cost a bit, but I 
can get it. What would I want it for, though? There's not a man in the outfit-me 
included-who can taste any difference between ClonoBird cutlets and the stuff you 
have to peel the feathers off of. I can even get ClonoBird with bones, if the recipe 
calls for it. So why stretch the budget for the old-fashioned stuff?" 
 

"It's not a man we're looking to feed," said Lieutenant Rembrandt, looking 

every bit as fussy as the Mess Sergeant. "And there's no recipe. It's for that 
Leftenant Qual, the Zenobian. He's used to live food." 
 

One of Escrima's subcooks looked up from the mouth of the oven, which 

she'd been loading with trays of croissants. "Live food?" she said. "Eeuww!" 
 

"My reaction exactly," said Rembrandt. "But the captain wants to make a 

special effort for Leftenant Qual. He's here as a military observer from his planet, 
and apparently his word on how we treat him could make a difference in whether 
they sign a treaty or decide to fight us." 
 

Escrima leaned over the counter, his hands and lower arms covered with 

flour. "Is the lizard going to eat his live birds right in the mess hall?" he asked. He 
was not smiling. 
 

"I hope not," said Rembrandt, shaking her head. "That stunt he pulled 

yesterday, running around and making people chase him, made him unpopular 
enough." 
 

"I heard the Zenobian is a spy," chimed in the subcook. "That's why the 

brass sent him here-they figure he'll get caught, and it'll give the captain a black 
eye." 
 

"How will it give the captain a black eye if we catch the Zenobian spying?" 

said Escrima, turning around to face her. He looked down at the open oven door 
and said, "Better get the rest of those trays in-we want 'em all ready at the same 
time. Your job's cooking, not counterspying." 
 

"Yes, Sarge," said the subcook, and resumed her task. 

 

"She's right about one thing, though, Escrima," said Rembrandt. "The 

Zenobian asked to be sent here because we were the first human outfit he 
encountered, back when he came exploring for new worlds and landed on Haskin's 
Planet where we were stationed. Qual figures he'll get a friendlier reception from 
the captain than he would somewhere else. Maybe he figures he can spy on us 
more easily. He even said that part of his mission was to study our tactics. That 
sure sounds like spying-especially if he goes back home and gives his general staff 
chapter and verse on how we fight." 
 

"Somebody could arrange it so he doesn't go back home," suggested 

Escrima. His fingers brushed the handle of a cleaver, perhaps accidentally, but 
Rembrandt noticed and shook her head. 
 

"That kind of accident would put the captain in even hotter water," she said 

firmly. "Qual spelled it out plain and clear at our dinner last night. We've got to play 
along with him, because his report could make or break the treaty negotiations. He 
can saunter around and take notes to his heart's content, and we can't do a thing 
about it." 
 

"So we're right between the frying pan and the heating unit," said Escrima. 

"Tell me again why I should go out of my way to get this lizard special, tasty food 
while he's spying on us?" 
 

"Captain's orders," said Rembrandt glumly. "I don't like it much myself, to tell 

you the truth, Escrima-either we ruin the whole company's appetite so one alien 
envoy can eat as he pleases, or we risk going to war because we won't give him 
his favorite dish. The captain thinks we're better off treating with Qual in good faith, 
which is why I'm here. Get us those live birds-I'll do what I can to make sure he 
eats them where none of us have to watch it. And Escrima-make sure your people 
keep this quiet. The Zenobian's unpopular enough as it is. No point throwing more 
fuel on the fire." 
 

"You got it, Lieutenant," said Escrima. He favored Rembrandt with a 

crooked grin. "You know me better than to think I'm going to spread stories about 
how some tasteless alien prefers live bait to my delicious cooking, don't you?" 
 

"I guess so," said Rembrandt, chuckling. "It was bad enough having to eat in 

the hotel restaurant last night. Maybe if this Zenobian gets a taste of your stuff he'll 
switch to human food and never look back." 
 

"He will, he will," said Escrima, with the confidence of a true artist. "And the 

first taste is free!" 
 
"Excuse me, do you belong to the Legion company?" 
 

Flight Leftenant Qual looked up at the two humans. "Most assuredly," he 

said. "It gives me great satisfaction to affiliate myself with the notorious band of 
Captain Clown." 
 

The taller human-Qual had trouble telling them apart, they were so similar-

said, "It is the captain we need to ask you about. I am Special Agent Peele, and 
this is my partner, Special Agent Hull." He showed an identification card that meant 
nothing to Qual, although the Zenobian could see that the holo on the card 
matched the face in front of him. 
 

"You may ask as you wish," said Qual, displaying his teeth in the friendly 

gesture humans called a smile. "Ignorance can be remedied. Such is my reason for 
being here." 
 

"Very well," said Peele, gesturing to Hull, who opened her briefcase and 

took out a compact multicorder. "We have reliable reports that your captain has 
been concealing large amounts of income. Our preliminary investigation suggests 
that the casino operation here generates substantially more revenue than its 
competitors. Is that true?" 
 

"I certainly hope so," said Qual, looking back at the casino, which towered 

over the three of them out on the public street. "It is a distinct pleasure to see one's 
benefactors prosper. Is that a recording device?" 
 

"Yes, regulations require us to make accurate records of all our interviews," 

said Peele. "Do you have any information that would indicate that the captain has 
skimmed off a portion of the profits for his personal use?" 
 

"I really have not been here long enough to know that," said Qual. "Does 

your recorder register images as well as sounds? My people would be interested in 
such a device." 
 

"It's a standard, government-issue multicorder," said Hull, somewhat 

defensively. "We are not authorized to discuss our equipment with civilians." 
 

"I see," said Qual, smiling again. "But you recognize, I am not a civilian, but 

a soldier, hence the uniform. Is it not so?" 
 

"The distinction is complex, and your conclusion is in this case inaccurate," 

said Special Agent Peele. "Besides, we are here to discuss your captain's 
finances, not our equipment. Now, if you don't mind..." 
 

"I could utilize such a recorder in my work," said Qual, reaching for the unit 

in question. "Will you sell it to me? I have many of your dollars." 
 

"It is against regulations to sell government equipment," said Hull, pulling 

the recorder away from the Zenobian's eagerly extended claws. A frown came over 
her face-the first semblance of an expression she had shown. 
 

"Ah, regulations, of course," said Qual. "Do you always obey these 

regulations?" 
 

"Be careful what you say," said Peele, holding up a hand. "It is a serious 

offense to solicit government agents to violate regulations. Do not pursue this line 
of inquiry, or we shall be obliged to report you to our superiors." 
 

"I should enjoy very much to meet your superiors," said Qual, his teeth still 

on display. "Are they here on Lorelei?" 
 

"Unfortunately not," said Hull. "This entire station is a notorious haven for 

tax-dodgers, and the local authorities have managed to minimize the influence of 
the IRS here. The casino owners are required to distribute a declarations form to 
bettors winning large amounts, but very few of those forms are ever filed. And we 
seriously doubt the accuracy of those we do receive." 
 

"Proof that Captain Jester-or Mr. Phule, to use his other alias-is evading 

taxes could give the IRS the leverage to establish a permanent presence here. 
Then we could begin to build cases against the other casino owners," said Peele. 
"Our mission is the thin end of the wedge, so it is very important that we play 
strictly by the regulations. There's a great deal at stake here." 
 

"All this is most edifying," said Qual. "The ones in authority among my 

people will be very inquisitive to know how you do such things. But I am depressed 
that I cannot tell you about the finances of Captain Clown. This is beyond my ken." 
 

Peele looked at Hull, who said, "I think he's telling the truth-he really doesn't 

know anything that concerns us. We're wasting our time here." She deactivated her 
recording device. 
 

"I think you're right," said Peele, grudgingly. "Well, we'll let you go about 

your business, then, good sophont. But we may have further questions at another 
time." 
 

"It has been most instructive to meet you," said Qual, with a stiff little bow 

and another toothy grin. He stood and watched as the two IRS agents walked 
away. 
 

Back in the casino doorway, some distance away, Tusk-anini watched with 

narrowed eyes. He wasn't sure what to make of the little Zenobian, but he knew he 
didn't like the IRS agents. As far as he was concerned, that was more than enough 
reason to be suspicious of Qual. 
 
Except for mealtimes, it was unusual for many of the Omega Mob to be together at 
once. Different assignments and different shifts (especially in the round-the-clock 
operation of the casino) meant that days or even weeks might go by without any 
occasion for the entire complement to be in the same place at once. So it was a 
novelty for Phule to find himself addressing a large room full of legionnaires. 
 

Phule looked around the room, waiting for the hum of voices to die down. 

Catching the serious mood, the men and women of Phule's Company spoke in 
quiet whispers, with none of the high-spirited byplay they would have shown before 
an address by their captain. As the last arrivals found their way into the few empty 
seats in the large room, Phule stepped to the podium and cleared his throat. The 
audience fell silent. 

 

"It's good to see so many of you here," he said, looking around at the 

assembly. "As you know, this is a voluntary meeting-there'll be another later today, 
for those who're on duty now and can't get away, so if you have friends who'd like 
to come, please let them know." 
 

Phule looked over at Rev, then turned back to his troops. "We've had a 

number of new members join our company recently," he said. "Some of you have 
had a chance to meet them, and I hope you're making them feel at home with us. 
We're building a reputation as the best company in the Legion, and we want the 
new people to know that they're part of something special when they come here." 
There was a murmur of assent to this, and Phule waited for it to die down before 
continuing. 
 

"I'm going to introduce a man that some of you have already met." He 

gestured toward the chaplain standing next to him. "Some time back, during our 
journey here, I realized that it would be valuable for many of you to have the 
benefit of wise council in times of trouble, a shoulder to lean on and a friend in time 
of need. And while your officers and sergeants understand your particular situation 
better than anyone outside our company, they can't always fill those roles. So I 
asked Legion Headquarters to send us a chaplain. He's been here several days, 
meeting people and getting a feel for the situation. Now he's asked for a chance to 
introduce himself to the entire company, and that's why I've called this meeting. 
Will you please give a warm welcome to our new chaplain-Rev." 
 

While Phule was speaking, Rev had stood quietly to one side of the podium; 

his head was bowed, and his hands were clasped over his breastbone. He might 
have been a lawyer preparing to deliver a jury summation. Now he stepped to the 
podium, waited for the patter of polite applause to die, and began. "Thank you, 
friends. You know, from time to time in our busy lives, a voice speaks to us-a voice 
we can't ignore. It may be the voice of a loved one, a mother, or a wife. It may be 
the voice of someone in authority, like your captain. Or it may be a quieter voice 
that comes from way down deep inside, remindin' each and every one of us about 
a duty left undone. A call, we term it in my line of work. I have had a call to this 
company, and here I stand before you in response to it." 
 

Rev paused a moment, lowered his head and took a deep breath, then 

looked up at his audience and continued. "I have been called here to tell you about 
the King," he said in a voice that resonated with significance. 
 

"The King? What king?" It was Gabriel who spoke, but the same question 

was in the minds of every man, woman, and alien in the chaplain's audience. 
 

"That's a fair question, son," said Rev, stepping in front of the podium and 

rubbing his hands together. "A fair question-and the answer is a story that's oft 
been told, so many times that I know it by heart-but since y'all may not have heard 
it, I guess it won't hurt none to tell again. A long time ago, on old Earth, there was a 
poor boy. A mighty poor boy-but one with a gift, and a spirit to make the most of 
himself. And make the most of himself he did. Why, in a few short months, he 
became the most imitated man on old Earth. He was on every screen, in every 
printout, on every frequency-and he was takin' in money faster than this here 

casino. He could have had anything he wanted. And do you know what he did? He 
went out and became a soldier. Not an officer, now. Not even a sergeant-a regular 
soldier, carryin' a gun and marchin' and takin' orders." 
 

"What for he do that, if he the king?" said another legionnaire-his name was 

Street, Rev remembered. "How come he don't buy hisself a 'mission, be an 
officer?" 
 

"Because he never forgot what it was like to be a poor boy, Street," said 

Rev, strutting back and forth in front of the assembly. "Not even after he finished 
with the army, and went back to givin' folks what they wanted. He didn't want to 
forget what it was like to be just a regular fellow, and he made sure he had 
somethin' to remember it by. So he never lost his touch with the real people. The 
little people like he'd been when he was still a poor boy. And they never forgot him. 
But he never put his nose up in the air. He could have gone anywhere in the world, 
talked to anybody he wanted to-presidents and governors and ladies so pretty they 
could make you forget your name. But he wanted to stay close to the people. And 
so he went to Vegas-which was the Lorelei of old Earth-and brought his gift to folks 
who gambled their money there, 'cause it was the only way for them to rise above 
their unhappy state. That's when he really became the King-when he brought 
himself to where the people who really needed him could see him. You see what I 
mean, Street?" He pointed at the legionnaire, his head lowered and his gaze 
intense. 
 

"Maybe I do," said Street, noncommittally. He folded his arms across his 

chest and sat there, looking at Rev without quite meeting the chaplain's eye. 
 

"Sure you do," said Rev. He clapped his hands. "And because the King went 

out to the casinos, givin' the people an example of how a poor boy could rise to the 
top, showin' 'em they just needed to find their gift and follow where it led, I feel very 
'specially at home here with y'all on Lorelei. It's the kind of place the King would 
have gone to do his work, before he Left the Buildin'." 
 

The faces in the audience usually told Rev how well his word was being 

received. Now, looking at the Omega Mob, he saw rapt stares on more than one 
face-the look that told him his words were striking home. Some of them nodded 
tacit agreement; others held their chins higher than usual, inspired by his story. It 
was time to pick up the tempo, to swing the entire crowd along with him. 
 

"The King knows how you feel," Rev said, rising up on the balls of his feet. 

There was a rhythm to his speech now. "He's been down low, and rose up high 
again. He took a walk down Lonely Street, and came back to Graceland. He went 
into the Army and did his duty like a man. When he had hard times, he knew how 
to make a comeback-and he came back in style. He went to Hollywood, he went to 
Vegas, and he stayed the same as when he was a poor boy. And he can help you 
make your comeback, yes he can!" 
 

"How's he gonna do that?" came a voice from the back of the audience. 

 

"Well, that's what I'm here to tell y'all," said Rev, grinning broadly now. "On 

account of he spent so many years in Vegas, the King knew how folks could get in 
over their heads at the casinos. Losin' money they couldn't afford to lose, bettin' on 

somethin' they thought was a sure thing. Takin' out loans at bad interest rates to 
pay off their tabs, or sellin' all their valuables. Well, I've found out that some of y'all 
are in that same fix. And here's what I'm a-gonna do. Every one of you who comes 
forward and pledges to follow the King, the Church will pay your gamblin' debts in 
full, one lump sum-you'll be on that comeback trail right there and then. How's that 
sound, now?" 
 

"That sounds too good to be true," came the same voice from the back-of 

the room. The speaker rose to his feet, and everybody turned to see Do-Wop 
standing there, a suspicious look on his face. "Ain't no free rides, not where I come 
from. So what's the catch, Rev? I'm in far enough over my head to grab anything 
that floats. But I wasn't born yesterday. I want to hear the whole swindle-what do I 
have to do if the King pays off my tab?" 
 

"Why, I'd think that's understood, son," said Rev. "You would be promisin' to 

become one of his faithful followers. To do like he said, and bring the message to 
other folks, too." 
 

"I figured that much out by myself," said Do-Wop, his arms folded across his 

chest. "So what's the scam? Lay it on me, Rev, so I figure out whether to bite or 
not." He stood there expectantly, and the assembled legionnaires fell silent, waiting 
for the answer. 
 

"You've got to be a true follower," said Rev. "That means you have to make 

a pilgrimage to Graceland, back on old Earth-you can't be a full believer till you've 
done that. And it means making yourself in his image. His faithful often have plastic 
surgery to be more perfect, although it's not required right away. And..." 
 

"Hold on, Rev," said Do-Wop. "Plastic surgery? I gotta change the way I 

look?" 
 

"That's right, son, changing the way you look is a way to change the way 

you act, so you won't be cruel. After everything the King is gonna do for you, it's 
the least you can do to show how you appreciate him. Why, I've had the operation 
myself-take a look." Rev turned one side of his face to the audience, then the 
other, before looking back at Do-Wop and smiling. "Now, what do you say, son?" 
 

Do-Wop looked at the chaplain, his face an unreadable mask. The room 

was dead silent, as everyone waited for him to speak. 
 

Finally, he looked at Rev and said, "Man, I can't do it. Count me out-I owe 

Sushi enough to send him on that trip to Greaseland, but I guess I gotta pay it off 
myself." 
 

"What?" said Rev, his jaw dropping. "Why? What could possibly be wrong 

with my offer?" 
 

Do-Wop looked him squarely in the eye and said, "Rev, the way I see it, 

you're offering me a face worse than debt." 
 

The crowd dissolved in laughter. 

 
 
 6 
Journal #307 

 

My employer was confident that a focus on the company's military priorities 

would allow his people to forget about the external problems, which would then 
more or less resolve themselves. As I had feared, this belief turned out to be over-
optimistic. In fact, the problems remained on the edge of everyone's awareness, 
putting the entire command cadre into a constant state of anxiety that something 
would boil over into an outright crisis. 
 

The only two who seemed unaffected by the ongoing crises were Flight 

Leftenant Qual, who went around the hotel observing and making enigmatic 
comments; and Chaplain Rev, who despite Do-Wop's public refusal of his offer to 
pay off gambling debts, seemed to be winning a fair number of converts. For the 
rest, it was chaos as usual... 
 
"OK, rookies, fall in," shouted Brandy. The new recruits hastily assembled 
themselves into a formation-most with a helter-skelter clumsiness she hoped they'd 
soon outgrow, but the Gambolts flowed into position like water running downhill. 
Brandy had to admit, she'd never seen anybody so natural at the things a 
legionnaire had to do. "Now we're going to have some fun. Today we begin 
unarmed combat instruction. Sergeant Escrima will assist me." 
 

Standing on the thick gymnastics mat next to Brandy, whose physical bulk 

more than matched her parade-ground vocal equipment, the mess sergeant looked 
for all the world like a miniature statue of a human being. That was highly 
misleading, as the new troops were about to learn. 
 

"OK, I'm going to demonstrate a basic move, and then you'll get a chance to 

try it for yourselves. Can I have a volunteer?" 
 

The rookies looked at one another nervously-they'd already had occasion to 

find out how strong Brandy was. A couple of hands went up, tentatively. Brandy 
ignored them, and pointed to Mahatma. "Here, this isn't hard-why don't you try it 
first?" 
 

The little round-faced man-his belly had already begun to lose its 

roundness-came forward onto the mat and Brandy stood facing him. "I'm going to 
show this to you in slow motion," she said to the troops. "This is a very basic move, 
one that lots of others are built on. Watch." She stepped closer to Mahatma. 
 

"Now, watch what happens first," she said. Brandy reached out her hand 

and pushed Mahatma in the center of his chest. He stepped backward, keeping his 
balance. "OK, Mahatma, tell me what I did and what you did." 
 

"You pushed me, and I stepped away," he said, smiling as always. "Would a 

battlefield opponent let you push him like that?" It had become almost a joke: 
Whatever you did to him, Mahatma took it with a smile-and followed up with a 
question that threatened to undercut the whole exercise. 
 

Brandy temporized. "I'll get to that. For now, the idea is, when I push you, 

you start to lose your balance. You're falling backward, so you step back to catch 
your balance again. Sounds easy, when you explain it. But let's try that again, with 
a little difference." 
 

She stepped up to Mahatma, and again pushed him in the center of the 

chest. But this time, her foot had snaked out to ensnare his leg before he could 
catch his balance, and he fell backward onto the mat. 
 

"You see it?" she asked the other recruits. "Keep the opponent from 

stepping backward, and he's got no place to go. All he can do is fall." She reached 
down and helped Mahatma to his feet. "Now, you try it on me." 
 

"All right, sarge," said Mahatma. He reached up and pushed Brandy, putting 

his foot behind her. She fell down, twisting as she fell, and rolled back up to her 
feet almost as soon as she was down. 
 

"That's the second part of the lesson," she said. "If your opponent knows 

how to recover, you won't have the advantage for long. So you have to be ready to 
follow up right away. Now, who else would like to try it?" 
 

This was the point at which she usually got somebody who'd had a little 

martial arts training as a civilian. One of the new troops-the one who'd had his 
hand up before, she noticed-had a smirk on his face. "OK, Slammer, your turn." 
 

Stammer swaggered out of the lineup, and took a stance opposite Brandy, 

his weight evenly balanced on the balls of his feet. He had obviously had training, 
and he looked to be in better than average physical condition for a recruit. Brandy 
suppressed a smile, then said, "Aw, let's make it a little bit more of an even 
contest. I must outweigh you twenty pounds." (It was more like fifty, but nobody 
had ever called her on that-not to her face.) "Here, Sergeant Escrima is more your 
size." 
 

Escrima stepped forward to take Brandy's place, his face impassive. Now 

the recruit had the weight advantage-probably thirty pounds, and several inches in 
reach. "OK, Stammer, let's see you try the move on Escrima." 
 

As Brandy had anticipated, Slammer grinned broadly and stepped up to 

Escrima, evidently planning on some spectacular throw instead of the simple 
technique she'd demonstrated. The recruit grabbed the little sergeant by one arm 
and began to turn so as to flip him over his hip. What happened next was hard to 
follow, but it ended with Slammer falling flat on his back from what seemed a 
considerable height, with an impressive thud. Escrima pounced on him like a hawk, 
one knee across a biceps, one hand on Stammer's throat, and the other poised in 
a fist in front of his face. 
 

"Third part of the lesson," Brandy said to the other recruits, who stared in 

awe at their fallen comrade. "Never take an opponent for granted. You go into 
combat, there's no such thing as a fair fight. No rules, no refs, no timeouts, and no 
points for style. Stammer tried to get fancy with Escrima, and look where it got 
him." 
 

Escrima let Slammer get up, and the recruit returned to his place in the 

formation, rubbing his biceps where the sergeant had kneeled on it. "OK, now 
you're going to break up into pairs and try the move I showed you. Stick with the 
lesson, and we'll show you all more moves as soon as everybody's had a chance 
to practice this one." 
 

The recruits broke up into pairs, spreading around the mats and trying the 

technique Brandy had shown them. Inevitably, a few of them had trouble even with 

something this elementary-and others tried to show off, attempting more 
complicated moves. It was about as typical a training session as Brandy had ever 
seen. 
 

Except for the Gambolts. Their feline anatomy put an entirely new twist on 

everything. Pushed backward, even with a leg confined, they would simply do a 
backfiip and land back on their feet, quicker than any human athlete. Once again, 
the Gambolts were simply leagues beyond their human counterparts. The other 
recruits had noticed by now, and there was muttering among them. When the 
exercise was finished, there was a distinct look of resignation on a number of the 
recruits' faces. 
 

As the training session progressed, there were more and more discouraged 

faces. The Gambolts made everything look easy, and the humans were rapidly 
coming to realize that they were outclassed by three recruits as fresh out of civilian 
life as they were. Normally, Brandy would have known what to do with a recruit so 
clearly superior. After all, a sergeant had the benefit of years of training-and a 
willingness to play whatever trick was needed to bring a recruit into line. A few 
quick falls with someone like Escrima, and even a fairly advanced martial arts 
student would be properly humbled. 
 

But the Gambolts were so good, she wasn't sure even Escrima could put 

them in their place. It didn't take much foresight to see that this was going to be a 
real problem... 
 
"Those Renegades are still snooping around, Captain," said Lieutenant 
Rembrandt. "I'd like to find some way to get rid of them." 
 

"I take it they haven't done anything we can use as grounds for barring them 

from the casino?" said Phule, tapping a pencil on his desk. For the second or third 
day in a row, the daily officer's briefing was shaping up as a series of unsolved 
problems. He didn't like that, but for the moment, the problems remained 
intractable. 
 

"Not unless we do it for general obnoxiousness," said Lieutenant Armstrong. 

"That's within our rights. From what I can tell, anything a casino owner wants to do-
up to and possibly including outright murder-is legal here on Lorelei. " 
 

"That's one of the few benefits of the mob having made the rules for so 

long," said Rembrandt, nodding. "We can bar anyone from the Fat Chance for any 
reason we concoct. But I don't think we can expel them from the station unless we 
catch them cheating at the tables, or damaging casino property, or running some 
kind of credit fraud. And the Renegades have been careful not to do that." 
 

"Where are they staying?" asked Beeker. "Perhaps you could call in a favor 

from one of your fellow casino owners." 
 

"They're at the Tumbling Dice," said Rembrandt, a sour look on her face. 

"That's Maxine Pruett's home base. Not much chance of calling in a favor from 
her." 
 

"No indeed," said Phule, glumly. "In fact, it wouldn't surprise me to learn that 

she had something to do with their discovery that Chocolate Harry was here with 

us." A frown came over his face. "Interesting that we've had so many outsiders 
arriving to make trouble for us all at the same time, isn't it?" 
 

"The Renegades, the Yakuza, and the IRS," said Beeker. "There does 

appear to be a pattern there. At least, young Sushi appears to have deflected the 
Yakuza for the time being. And I can certify that your personal books are in 
excellent order-even if the revenue agents are inclined to nitpick, I am confident 
that you can come out of anything except the most hostile audit with a clean nose." 
 

"Good man, Beeker," said Phule. "I have complete faith in you to handle that 

end of things. But the Chocolate Harry situation has to be taken care of. Turning 
his supply depot into a fortified position has kept the Renegades at bay, but the 
hassle factor is hurting efficiency. When somebody has to go through a security 
checkpoint to get a can of vacuum grease or a spare battery, they're likely to go 
without-and that means some piece of equipment won't be working right. On the 
other hand, if we make C.H. dismantle all his defenses, the Renegades will have 
an open shot at him." 
 

"Which brings us back to the question of how to neutralize the Renegades," 

said Armstrong, scowling. He slapped his hand on the arm of his chair and said, "I 
say we snatch them when they're off their guard, then find some pretext to kick 
them out of Lorelei. Let Maxie yell about it after they're gone." 
 

"You would risk getting people hurt," Beeker pointed out. 

 

"We'll be in a sad state when the Legion can't handle a few civilian 

brawlers," said Armstrong. He raised his chin, and his chest swelled. "I expect we'd 
deal out considerably better than we got, Captain." 
 

"I know our people can take care of themselves, Lieutenant," said Phule. 

"But we're in an enclosed space full of civilians, and we can't go throwing our 
weight around every time we feel like it. I'll try your approach if nothing else works, 
but I want to see what other options we have, first." 
 

"There's another problem with that approach," said Rembrandt. "If Maxine 

Pruett's causing all this trouble, throwing the Renegades out would be only a 
temporary solution. She'll find another way to harass us-and I think we can count 
on her to keep doing it as long as we're here." 
 

"You're right," said Phule. He closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of 

his nose. "I suspect she is behind most of our recent troubles, though I can't prove 
it. If she can keep us responding to a hundred minor nuisances, she'll weaken us 
for responding to a really serious threat from some other quarter. It's classic 
guerilla tactics." 
 

"Is there any way to go after Pruett directly?" asked Armstrong. 

 

"Not without exceeding our authority," said Phule. "And not without risking 

civilian casualties. For that kind of direct action against her, we'd need a really 
blatant provocation-and Maxie's not foolish enough to provide one. Even if she did, 
General Blitzkrieg would find a way to turn it to our discredit." 
 

"You know, I wonder if this company hasn't outgrown its mission here," said 

Rembrandt. "Lorelei looked like a plum assignment when we got it, and-all 
difficulties aside-our stint here has been very rewarding. But casino guard duty isn't 

exactly what I joined up for, and I'm afraid it's having a negative effect on the 
company's readiness for its larger mission." 
 

"Hmmm-I'd begun to think something like that myself," said Phule. "The 

casino doesn't need an elite Legion company to break up bar fights and discourage 
cheaters. I'm afraid a lot of our people are in danger of losing their edge because 
nothing they do requires it of them." 
 

"That's how I feel," said Armstrong. "A bunch of civilians could do most of 

this job as well as we can. If it weren't for Pruett trying to horn in, we could leave 
our actors-in-uniform behind to stand guard. With a cadre of trained security 
guards to take care of more serious trouble, the place would be as safe as it is 
now." 
 

"You're probably right," said Phule, nodding. "The only flaw in that picture is 

that Maxine Pruett won't go away. Even if she did, some other mobster would step 
into her shoes." 
 

"Back to square one," said Armstrong. "If the place weren't so profitable, I'd 

advise you to wash your hands of it." 
 

"Oh, I'd sell in a nanosecond, for the right price," said Phule. "The worst 

mistake an investor can make is holding on to something past time to sell it." 
 

Beeker nodded approvingly. "Remember, though-it's just as bad to sell 

something too early, out of panic. Maxie Pruett would love to see you sell the 
casino too cheaply. She'd have control of it within six months-if not immediately." 
 

"Yeah, I bet she'd be moving in the back door as you went out the front," 

said Rembrandt. 
 

"Well, for now, I'm standing pat," said Phule. "The right time to move on will 

come-and when it does, we'll be ready. Until then, we'll make the best of what we 
have." 
 

"Yes, sir," said Rembrandt and Armstrong. Neither one looked especially 

happy. 
 
"Too much happening," said Tusk-anini wearily. "Not good-can make one little 
mistake into very big one." 
 

"I know what you mean," said Super-Gnat. The diminutive legionnaire was 

freshly off duty, and was still wearing the cocktail waitress costume that allowed 
her to move among the casino crowds without attracting undue attention-except 
from those gamblers whose glass was empty. "This company can handle any kind 
of trouble, as long as we attack it as a team. But now we've got Chocolate Harry 
holed up because of those outlaw bikers, and it's a major expedition to get into 
supply depot. And you saw those IRS agents sneaking around for info about the 
captain. What's worse, it looks like we've got a spy in the company." 
 

"Is method for this in military textbooks," said Tusk-anini. The giant Volton 

legionnaire had been spending late nights poring through books on every 
conceivable human subject, especially Lieutenant Armstrong's library of military 
history texts. "Hold position against one enemy while concentrate strength against 
another. Defeat in detail, is called. Work good in theory, maybe not so easy in 

practice." 
 

"Not so easy in practice," repeated Super-Gnat. "That ought to be the 

Legion motto-at least, the way most of the Legion runs. We're lucky to have a 
commander who doesn't do things the regular way, you know, Tusk?" 
 

Tusk-anini snorted-it was a very piglike snort, which somebody not used to 

Voltons might have taken wrong. Super-Gnat knew it was the equivalent of a low 
chuckle in humans. "Is more than luck," he said. "Captain had to make some bad 
mistake to get sent to our company. But he no fool-and that no joke, either. He 
show us we can be best company in Legion, and make us work hard to do it. He 
got to be best commander in the Legion." 
 

"I'm with you on that one," agreed Super-Gnat. "But remember, he didn't get 

here without making enemies-and not all of them are outside the Legion. Mother 
told me that the top brass think the captain's showing them up, and they want to 
put him in his place. That's bound to mean trouble for the rest of us, too. We've 
come through everything OK so far, but I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop." 
 

"I no hear shoe drop," said Tusk-anini, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. 

"When this happen?" 
 

"Uh, that's not meant literally, Tusk," said Super-Gnat. "What I mean is, I 

keep expecting them to send the company someplace really rotten, like the middle 
of a war zone or something, to get the captain in trouble." 
 

"That not going to happen, because there no wars going on right now," said 

Tusk-anini, patiently. "You worry too much, Gnat." 
 

"Maybe I do," said Super-Gnat. "But remember, it hasn't been so long since 

there was a war-in fact, I hear tell that's where the captain pulled the SNAFU that 
got him sent here. I don't know whether you were paying attention to the 
scuttlebutt, but word was that he talked a couple of pilots into strafing an enemy 
position-except he didn't know that's where the peace talks were going on. And it's 
a big galaxy-there could be another war breaking out almost anywhere, and we 
could find ourselves being sent to fight." 
 

"Who we fight?" Tusk-anini looked skeptical-not easy behind his specially 

fitted dark glasses, worn to protect his sensitive eyes from normal light. "No 
enemies around to fight-plenty of room for all species, not like old Earth before 
space flight. No reason for wars." 
 

"So why's there a Space Legion, then?" Super-Gnat put her hands on her 

hips and stared up belligerently at her big partner. "For that matter, why's there 
Regular Army or Starfleet? Seems to me the government's paying a lot to keep 
fighting forces around if there aren't going to be any more wars. But that's not what 
I'm getting at. Even if' there's not a war, there are ways the brass could try to shaft 
the captain-and believe you me, Tusk, they'll be trying to find them." 
 

Tusk-anini snorted again. "Captain not alone. Maybe generals find some 

way to get captain in trouble, but we no let it happen because trouble for captain 
mean trouble for us." 
 

"You've got the right idea there, Tusk," said Super-Gnat. "But there's one 

thing you should never forget: Generals usually don't care about whether they get 

regular troops in trouble. We're warm bodies to throw at a problem until it goes 
away. That's what makes our captain different-he cares about us because 
somehow, deep inside, he knows he's like us. So we have to take care of him, too." 
 

"We take care of him," agreed Tusk-anini. "So let other shoe drop-we catch 

it before it hit the floor." 
 

"That's the right idea," said Super-Gnat. "Now that we've got that much 

figured out, why don't we go down to the pub and see if we can figure out which 
foot the other shoe is on?" 
 
The Omega Mob had never formally adopted the Olde English Pub, in the 
basement of the Fat Chance Casino, as the company watering hole. Nonetheless, 
at any given hour you could find legionnaires hanging out there-sipping a drink, 
playing games, or tossing darts, and talking about the things that off-duty military 
personnel have talked about from time immemorial. The legionnaires didn't keep 
the civilian casino customers from using the Pub-the captain would have frowned 
on any attempt at that-but they clearly set its tone. 
 

The Pub was especially noisy tonight, with several groups of legionnaires, in 

and out of uniform, gathered in different sections. There was a serious game of 
Tonk going on at one table; Street was the big winner so far, but Double-X had 
been on a hot steak for several hands, and the banter between the two was getting 
louder as the stakes got bigger. At the corner table farthest from the blaring trivid 
set, Doc and Moustache were playing a quieter, if not necessarily calmer, game: 
blitz chess. Two or three other legionnaires looked on, waiting to play the winner. 
 

In still another corner, Do-Wop was holding forth with a string of stories, 

most of which were of highly dubious veracity, although he swore up and down that 
he had been a witness, if not a personal participant, in all of them. The circle of 
listeners included Dee Dee, between sets on her evening show, Junior, Super-
Gnat, and Tusk-anini. The latter, perhaps because of his limited experience of 
human ways, was the only one who didn't appear downright skeptical of Do-Wop's 
yarns. 
 

"So then I say to the cop, `Yeah, I'm the owner of this whole building,'" said 

Do-Wop. "Well, I could tell he wasn't buyin' it..." 
 

"Why you want cop to buy building?" asked Tusk-anini, his eyes riveted on 

Do-Wop. 
 

"Not the building, Tusk-I wanted him to buy the story, see?" Do-Wop tapped 

his fingertips on the tabletop. This was not the first interruption from the giant 
Volton. 
 

Tusk-anini's frown deepened. "You want him to buy story? Was cop 

magazine editor?" 
 

"Aw, gimme a break, Tusk," said Do-Wop, while the ring of onlookers broke 

into laughter. "I might as well try sellin' hooch to robots. Just let me finish the story, 
and then ask your questions, capisce?" 
 

"But I no capisce," said Tusk-anini, who had spent plenty of sessions 

listening to Do-Wop's stories in the past. "That why I ask questions." 

 

Do-Wop threw up his hands. "Jeez, cool it with the questions for a while, will 

ya? Now, where was I?" 
 

"Probably about halfway to getting yourself thrown in jail," said a new voice, 

and Do-Wop looked up to see Sushi, standing there with a broad smile. 
 

"Yo, man, long time no see!" said Do-Wop, jumping to his feet and throwing 

an arm around his partner. "Last anybody heard, you was kidnapped by the 
Yazookas." 
 

"Yakuza, and there was only one of them," said Sushi, laughing as he 

returned Do-Wop's hug. "And the guy didn't kidnap me-we went off to transact 
some business. Which went exactly the way I wanted it to, I might add." 
 

"Knowin' you, it was some kind of monkey business," said Do-Wop, who'd 

been a complete stranger to the subtler forms of chicanery before Phule had 
teamed him with Sushi. "You gonna tell us the story?" 
 

"Hey, you no finish your story!" protested Tusk-anini, as Sushi plopped 

himself in a vacant chair, signalling for the waitress. 
 

"Later, Tusk, later," said Do-Wop, waving his hand at the Volton. "The man's 

been runnin' games, and I gotta know the score. Spill, buddy, spill!" 
 

Sushi leaned forward and began, "Well, I guess everybody's heard about 

the start of it. I was on duty in the casino, in the blackjack section. The dealer 
spotted a couple of players passing cards..." 
 

"Sssst! Careful what saying, here comes spy!" said Tusk-anini. 

 

"Spy? Where?" Sushi looked puzzled. 

 

"Quiet, he's coming this way," whispered Super-Gnat, putting a hand on 

Sushi's elbow. "Let us handle him, and we'll tell you what it's about later." 
 

Sushi nodded just as Flight Leftenant Qual came up to the table. Agile as he 

was when running flat-out, his normal walking gait was a comic waddle. "Greetings, 
comrades," said the little Zenobian. "May I join your gathering?" 
 

"Guess we can't stop you," muttered Do-Wop. 

 

"Ah, that must be humor!" said Qual. His translator gave out a strange 

sound somewhere between a hiss and a snarl, which might have been its attempt 
to render Zenobian laughter into human speech. Whatever the meaning, it did 
nothing to ingratiate him with the legionnaires. 
 

Qual pulled an empty chair over from a nearby table and seated himself 

between Tusk-anini and Do-Wop, both of whom cast baleful stares at him. "So, is 
this how Legion spends evenings?" he asked, looking around the group. 
 

"Who needs to know?" asked Do-Wop. His tone did not invite further 

discussion. 
 

Qual's translator was not set to make fine distinctions between tones. 

"Pardon, did I not introduce myself? I am Flight Leftenant Qual," he said, showing 
his teeth. "Military attaché from Zenobian Empire." 
 

"We know who you are," said Super-Gnat, her voice dripping icicles. "And 

we know what you're here for, too." 
 

"Excellent," said Qual, slapping the table. "It is to be sympathetic, not so? 

Let this one purchase the next circle of drinks!" 

 

"No want drink," said Tusk-anini, his eyes narrowed. 

 

"Me neither," said Do-Wop, though his glass was empty. He was not often 

known to pass up a round when someone else was buying. The others who'd been 
sitting at the table all indicated their refusal. 
 

The only exception was Sushi. "Well, I just got here, so I'm dry," he said. "If 

you're buying, I'm drinking." 
 

"Excellent," said Qual, slapping the table again. "I am doleful none of your 

comrades are thirsty, but perhaps some different time. I like your custom of having 
one bring the drinks-it makes more time for mingling than when each must go to 
the pool for itself." 
 

"Assuming you want to mingle," commented Super-Gnat, casting a 

significant glance toward Qual. "And now that I think of it, I guess I've had all the 
mingling I want tonight. Tusk, are you ready?" 
 

"Tusk-anini ready," agreed the Volton, rising to his feet. 

 

He nearly brushed the ceiling, towering over the little Zenobian. "Good 

seeing most of you," he said, and turned to follow Super-Gnat away. 
 

"Time for me to get ready for my third set," said Dee Dee, standing up. One 

after another, the others at the table also made excuses and exited. Finally only 
Sushi sat there with Qual, waiting for their drinks to come. 
 

"A shame so many had to leave," said Qual. "I will simply have to get to 

know them some other time." 
 

"So it would seem," said Sushi. He pulled his chair up closer to Qual. "But 

there's no reason for us to be strangers. Tell me, Flight Leftenant, what kinds of 
things are you most interested in finding out about our people?" 
 

"Why, almost everything," said Qual, his teeth gleaming in the flickering 

barroom lights. "You are much unlike my race in many ways. To begin with..." 
 

The conversation stretched into the late hours. 

 
 
 7 
Journal #310 
 

The key to happiness in life is timing. This is certainly true in finance: Sell 

stock early or late, and you will always blame yourself. The same is true in military 
affairs: A general who commits his reserves too soon may see them beaten back 
by an enemy still strong, and one who delays is likely to find the battle already lost. 
Even a thing as trivial as entering a room can be done at better and worse times. 
 

My employer had the knack of good timing. Perhaps it was inherited-his 

father had certainly been adept at timing the introduction of new products. Or 
perhaps young Phule had simply inherited a more mysterious, but even more 
useful, trait: the ability to convince everyone around that what one has just done 
was precisely the right thing to do at that particular time. 
 
"Too good?" Armstrong guffawed. "Some of our troops are too good? That's the 
first time this company's been accused of that!" 

 

"Lieutenant, I sincerely hope it's not the last time," said Phule, pacing behind 

his desk. "But if Brandy says it's a problem, I want to hear about it. Sergeant?" 
 

Brandy had an unaccustomed worried look on her face. "Well, Captain, 

those Gambolts are so good that the other recruits can't keep up with them. I ask 
for a hundred pushups, and they finish them before the rest have done twenty. We 
practice unarmed combat and nobody can touch 'em. We haven't run the obstacle 
course yet-it's still being set up over in the park-but I'll bet my stripes that when we 
do run it, the Gambolts will make everybody else look sick." 
 

Armstrong let out an appreciative whistle. "Great. This company's needed 

somebody to set an example for our people. Now the rest have something to 
emulate." 
 

"Except they can't," said Brandy, shaking her head. "They might as well try 

to outrun a laser beam. Any time speed or strength or agility makes the difference, 
the cats have the humans completely outclassed. And the whole training platoon is 
starting to get discouraged. Unless we can figure out something, their morale's 
going to go straight down the pipes, Captain." 
 

"It seems to me we had this same problem right after I came to the unit," 

said Phule. He pulled out his desk chair and sat down, leaning forward. "It was the 
obstacle course that gave us all the answer, if you'll remember." 
 

"Sure, I remember," said Brandy. "That turned the whole company around-

showing us that working as a group we can accomplish things that only a few of us 
can do by ourselves." 
 

"The recruits need to learn that lesson," said Phule. "And I think the 

Gambolts especially need to learn it. But for it to work, we'll have to change the 
exercise a little. Tell me what you think about this idea..." 
 

He went to the sketchboard and began outlining a variation on the Omega 

Mob's obstacle course exercise. At first Armstrong and Brandy were skeptical, 
pointing out flaw after flaw. Phule adapted his plan in response to their objections, 
and soon the three were working together, eagerly designing the new exercise. It 
was late at night when they declared it ready, but they were convinced they had 
the answer. 
 

Still, the whole plan depended on the new troops rising to the occasion. So 

far, there'd been no sign they were capable of it. Unless that changed, Phule's 
Company was in danger of returning to the mediocrity from which it had risen. 
 
"What the hell's going on over there?" Maxie Pruett gestured toward the Fat 
Chance Casino. The gesture was unnecessary; everyone in the room knew exactly 
what she was referring to. 
 

"As far as I can tell, Boss, not a damn thing," said Altair Allie. Maxie had 

sent Allie to keep an eye on the Fat Chance as soon as she'd heard that her plans 
for Phule's Company were ripening. "There was that one day when all hell broke 
loose, with the Yakuza guy starting a fight, and the little lizard playing chase 
through the casino, and the tax collectors and bikers showing up, and then nothing. 
The Army guys are acting like it's all routine." 

 

"Not Army-Space Legion," said Laverna. 

 

"Legion, schmegion," said Altair Allie with a dismissive wave. "They got 

guns and uniforms, and that's Army enough for me. Point is, they're acting like 
nothin's wrong." 
 

"Precisely," said Laverna. "They've announced a major training exercise 

scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. Open to the public-we'll be watching, of course. 
In fact, I plan to go see it myself. Still, they're carrying on as if they hadn't noticed 
any of the aggravation we've been sending them. We pulled a lot of strings to give 
them all that grief. Greased quite a few palms, too." 
 

"And I expected a hell of a lot more effect," said Maxie, with a fierce frown. 

"They ought to be worried...No, more than that. Under that kind of pressure, they 
ought to be sweating bullets. What's wrong?" 
 

"The Yakuza agent shipped out two days ago," said Laverna. "He and the 

woman who came with him left with out contacting us, so we don't know what 
happened there. But the impostor they came looking for is still very much alive." 
 

"That's right, I seen him in the Pub last night," said Altair Allie. "Didn't look 

like he'd lost any sleep lately." 
 

Maxie's frown deepened. "What about the Renegades?" 

 

"They're still hangin' out," Altair Allie answered. "No action yet, far as I see. 

But part of the hotel is closed off to outsiders now, and it didn't use to be. It could 
be they're hidin' some new secret weapon or somethin', but I'd lay you two-to-one 
that big mug Chocolate Harry-the one the bikers are after-is hidin' out there." 
 

"Well, if he is, he has to come out sooner or later," said Maxie, nodding. "All 

we have to do is keep those Renegades around to nail him when he does. And that 
won't be hard. A free first-class hotel room and meals on the house are a pretty 
good incentive, don't you think?" 
 

"I'd hang around for that," said Altair Allie. "But not gettin' any action might 

get to 'em after a while." 
 

"If they get antsy, we'll stir up some action for 'em," said Maxie. "A good old-

fashioned smoke bomb in the right place can scare a lot of people out of hiding..." 
 

"Legionnaires aren't a lot of people," said Laverna, shaking her head. "I 

wouldn't bet on that kind of trick working." 
 

"And since when did you become such a legionnaire fan?" Maxie snapped. 

"Is that fancy-dressing butler sweet-talking you into double-crossing me?" 
 

"You know better than that," said Laverna. "You pay me to tell you the truth, 

and that's what you're getting from me. The next time I pull my punches will be the 
first time." 
 

"I didn't say you were pulling your punches. I said you were taking the 

Legion side," Maxie retorted, standing up and walking around the table. She aimed 
a finger at Laverna from point-blank range, and bellowed, "If you double-cross me, 
you're finished. Got it?" 
 

"I knew that a long time ago," said Laverna, still calm. Her nickname, the Ice 

Bitch, had never seemed more appropriate. "I'm not under any illusions; my only 
insurance is being too useful for you to do without me. That's what I'm doing now-

telling you something you need to know. I shouldn't even have to tell you-you 
should remember the last time you tried to play rough with Phule's people. You 
don't want to see what they can do if they get really angry-as I'm certain they would 
if you flushed Chocolate Harry out of hiding for the Renegades to catch." 
 

"I didn't say anything about doing it ourselves," said Maxine. "I figured we 

might drop a little hint here or there..." 
 

"I know what you meant, and so do you," said Laverna. "Do what you want 

to do-that's your usual way, anyhow-but don't pretend you'll like all the 
consequences. You might even try not to get angry at me for warning you." 
 

Maxine glowered, but nodded. "OK, I get the idea. All right, then. We won't 

poke up that hornet's nest. Besides, we still have the IRS on his tail. Allie, any 
report on them?" 
 

"They're poking around and asking people questions, but that's about it," 

said Altair Allie. "That's their game, though. Pop up out of nowhere with a piece of 
paper that says you owe 'em everything you got. If soldier boy ain't playing by their 
rules, he's a goner. And there ain't nobody in the casino game can play it straight 
enough for them buzzards-not and still make a buck, they can't." 
 

"Tell me about it," said Maxine. "Well, now that they're on to him, we'll have 

to let them play it their way. And hope they don't notice anybody else on Lorelei." 
 

"Present company, for instance," said Laverna grimly. Maxine looked at her 

intently, but the Ice Bitch's face betrayed no sign of emotion. Perhaps it was only 
an offhand comment-and perhaps it was a subtle hint that Laverna might have 
other kinds of insurance against her boss than she'd admitted. Whatever it was, 
Maxine didn't like it one bit. But there wasn't much she could say about it, for the 
moment. 
 
"You bastards don't have any right to do this," shouted Gears, as two stone-faced 
bouncers unceremoniously hustled him out of the Three Deuces. Neither bouncer 
answered. At the doorway, they picked him up between them, gave him a couple of 
warm-up swings, and tossed him bodily into the street. He landed in a heap, but 
rose quickly to his feet, turning with raised fists to confront his adversaries. Too 
late: They'd faded back inside the door, not even waiting to see if he'd try to return. 
 

Gears stood for a moment, pondering what he should do next. He wasn't 

drunk enough-though he was nearly angry enough-to charge back in and confront 
the bouncers. That game had only one likely outcome. He patted his jacket pocket. 
His wallet was still there, where the bouncers had shoved it after frog-marching him 
over to the cashier to collect his winnings. They'd cashed his chips honestly 
enough, then stuffed the money into his wallet and given him the heave-ho. But 
they'd made it clear he wasn't welcome to gamble in the Three Deuces again. No 
gambling house likes system players, especially not when their system actually 
wins. 
 

What now? he asked himself. It was late-not that that made any significant 

difference on Lorelei, where the casinos and saloons were open round-the-clock, 
ready to take a sucker's money any time he appeared. But it did make a difference 

to Gears, who had to be ready for duty back at the Fat Chance in just under four 
hours. Some of that time ought to be spent sleeping-if he wasn't going to nod off on 
duty, and get yelled at by Chocolate Harry, which he wasn't anxious to try. 
 

He sighed and looked down the street toward the Fat Chance, then shook 

his head. His luck was hot tonight-even with a system, you needed luck to win big. 
Tonight the dice had been coming up right. It would be a shame to quit when 
everything was in the groove. He turned the other way, and went looking for 
another casino. 
 

Next thing he knew, he was in an unfamiliar neighborhood, with dimmer 

lights and fewer people than the ones he normally frequented. Belatedly, it crossed 
his mind that it might not be as safe, either... 
 

That was when a large, dark shadow loomed from a nearby alleyway, and a 

gravelly voice said, "You just found the wrong part of town, buddy." 
 

"Who's that?" said Gears, suddenly aware that he and this newcomer were 

the only ones on this side street. 
 

"I'm not stupid enough to tell you that," said the stranger, in a surprisingly 

reasonable tone of voice. In the dim light, Gears could see that he was dressed in 
workman's clothing, and muscled like a man used to heavy physical work. He was 
also very big. The stranger stepped closer and said, "The less you know about who 
I am, the less you can tell." He reached out a huge paw. "Just give me your money 
and it'll go easy with you." 
 

"No way in hell," said Gears, and he spun away from the man, already 

breaking into a run. He remembered an open saloon at the next street corner; he'd 
go there and call the Fat Chance for backup. 
 

He'd barely taken two steps before something slammed into him from the 

side, knocking him to the ground. His breath went out of him in a rush as the 
attacker landed on top of him, and the gleam of a blade in the other man's hand 
put a stop to any idea of fighting back. "What's the hurry, sonny boy?" said a voice 
in his ear. "We ain't done talkin' to ya." 
 

"You really should have given me the money," said the big man, kneeling 

down next to Gears. His voice sounded genuinely sad. "Now you've got my friend 
involved, and he's a lot nastier than I am." 
 

"That ain't no way to talk, Chuckie," said the second assailant. "You're likely 

to make sonny boy think we don't like his kind hereabouts. Truth is, we likes 'em 
fine." 
 

"Long as they aren't stingy with their money, that is," said Chuckie. "OK, 

tourist, my friend's going to let you get to your money so you can hand it over, and 
then we'll all go our separate ways. Now, don't make any tricky moves. I don't think 
you want to find out what he likes to do with that vibroblade." 
 

The second man sat up; this took his weight off Gears's chest and arms, but 

kept his legs pinioned. The blade hovered over his unprotected belly. "You heard 
Chuckie," he said. "Give us the money and nobody gets hurt." 
 

Gears had won a lot of money that night-nearly enough to pay off his debt. 

But the blade was hard to argue with. "All right, take it easy," he said. "Just let me 

get to my pocket." 
 

Gears reached for the pocket where his wallet was, but as his hand 

approached it, the man pinioning his legs brandished the knife and grabbed his 
wrist. "Hold still," the man said. "Let's see what's in there." He reached down and 
removed the wallet. "Well, sonny boy's a good boy after all," he said, handing it to 
his partner. 
 

"You'd be surprised how many people my friend has had to cut because 

they thought they could outdraw him," said Chuckie. He opened the wallet and 
whistled. "Sonny boy's been lucky tonight." 
 

The other man looked up at the money, and Gears saw his chance. A quick 

chop to the wrist sent the vibroblade flying, and Gears followed with a punch to the 
throat, throwing the man to one side. He pushed his way free of the choking 
assailant, and made a leap for Chuckie, who'd fallen back. 
 

Chuckie held him off with a straight arm, long enough for the other man to 

recover first his breath and then his knife. He threw a crushing forearm around 
Gears's throat, and a moment later, the legionnaire felt the blade throbbing next to 
his rib cage. He went limp. 
 

"Tsk, tsk. That wasn't very smart," said Chuckie, in a mock sympathetic 

voice. "Now we'll have to hurt you-it's bad business to let people think they can 
fight back without getting hurt, you know." 
 

Gears saw motion off to one side, and then a mechanical-sounding voice 

said, "Great Gazma, what a curious sight! Is this a common economic 
transaction?" 
 

"This isn't your business," said Chuckie, moving ominously toward the 

speaker, whom Gears now recognized as Flight Leftenant Qual, the Zenobian. 
"Walk on by before something happens to you, too." 
 

"Oh, no, this appears to be one of my comrades," said Qual, moving 

forward. "It would not be soldierly not to assist him." 
 

"One step closer and I cut his liver out," snarled the man with an arm around 

Gears's throat. "Stand off and nobody gets hurt." 
 

"I take exception," said Qual. "You are now the ones in danger of a hurt. Let 

the human go, if you would." 
 

"We wouldn't," said Chuckie. "Now, we're going to back away real slow. You 

stay right where you are if you want your friend safe. My partner's dangerous when 
he gets nervous, and I'm afraid you've put him right on the edge." 
 

"How unfortunate," said Qual, stopping and touching something on his belt. 

"Perhaps he needs a period of inactivity." He held out his hand and 
did...something. Gears felt a sudden lethargic feeling overcome him, and he 
slumped to the ground. He was vaguely aware of the arm around his throat coming 
loose, and as he fell, the other man's body dropped to the ground next to him. Idly, 
he wondered what had happened. 
 

Then Qual was standing over him. "Rest, friend, and have no concern," said 

the Zenobian. "I have communicated to Mother to send us help-all the trouble is 
complete now." 

 

I don't know what he did, but I think he saved my life, thought Gears, and 

then unconsciousness overcame him. 
 
"Am I making a mistake to trust him, Beeker?" Phule pushed aside the sheaf of 
printouts he'd been reading during breakfast and leaned back in his chair. 
 

"I take it you are referring to Sushi, sir?" said Beeker. He set down his 

coffee cup. 
 

"Right," said Phule. "Do I continue to trust a man who can take control of my 

Dilithium Express account, or do I safeguard the money-and show him I don't trust 
him? When the lives of everybody in this unit could depend on that trust some 
day?" 
 

"One always needs to strike a balance between trust and security, sir," said 

Beeker. "There are things that every member of your company needs to know-daily 
pass words, for example. But only a few are cleared to receive top secret 
information-and yet nobody takes that as a matter of distrust. The fewer people 
who know some things, the more secure we all are. It would seem axiomatic that 
access to your money needs to be restricted." 
 

Phule took a sip of juice and rubbed his chin. "That's great advice, Beeker-

except, what is there that's more secure than Dilithium Express? If he can hack 
that account, is there anything he can't hack?" 
 

"Perhaps not," said Beeker. "But if Dilithium Express is vulnerable, obviously 

some alternative is necessary." 
 

"I guess you're right," said Phule. "Too bad there's no way to keep the 

information quiet-but even if we captured that Yakuza agent, there's no way of 
knowing he hasn't already reported to his bosses. Or that any of several people 
have not figured out what happened." 
 

"Yes, the genie is out of the bottle," said Beeker, his face impassive as 

always. "Now our goal should be to minimize the damage it can do. Or better yet, 
to turn it to our advantage." 
 

"I don't see how I'm going to get any advantage from having people know 

my credit account is vulnerable," said Phule. He stood up from the table and began 
to pace. "As far as I can tell, the only person who comes out of this with any 
advantage is Sushi, if you get right down to it." 
 

"Oh, I believe there may be a way to profit from Sushi's skills," said Beeker. 

"Sometimes, letting everyone know you can do something is as good as actually 
doing it. Word that one of your men can meddle with a Dilithium Express account 
should make its way through the criminal underworld quite rapidly. This will 
undoubtedly prompt many of them to turn all their efforts toward duplicating the 
feat-but of course, you will have protected your assets against any such attempt." 
 

"I see," said Phule. "And while they're doing that, they're not trying to attack 

us in other ways. Well, it's not much of a silver lining, but I'll take what I can get. 
But we still need a way to protect my assets without losing easy access to them." 
 

"As to that, sir, I have a suggestion I believe you will find of interest," said 

Beeker, a faint smile on his lips. 

 

"Do you, now?" said Phule. "What do you have in mind?" 

 

Beeker was about to reply when Phule's wrist communicator buzzed. "Yes, 

Mother?" he said, wondering what new crisis had occurred. 
 

"Get yourself prettied up and don't drag your feet, sweetie," came the 

familiar voice from the communicator. "Your favorite brass hat wants to see you on 
the holophone." 
 

"General Blitzkrieg?" Phule's jaw fell. 

 

"Well, it sure sounded like him to me, silly boy. If I were you, I'd hurry up and 

talk to him. I can stall the old lizard-face as long as you need me to, but I doubt it'll 
improve his not-so-sunny disposition." 
 

"Give me three minutes," said Phule. "Did he say what it was about?" 

 

"You must be out of your ever-lovin' mind," said Mother. "Now, get your tail 

movin', toots-that three minutes is already started, and as much as I'd enjoy giving 
the general the run-around, I'm worried about what he'd have done to me if he 
found out I was wastin' his time." She broke the connection. 
 

"General Blitzkrieg," said Phule, looking at Beeker. "He certainly picked an 

interesting time to call." 
 

"Yes, sir," said Beeker, looking at Phule critically. "You've enough time to 

comb your hair before you talk to him. It would be exactly in character for the 
general to waste the first five minutes of a trans-space holophone call reprimanding 
you for your appearance." 
 

Phule grimaced. "I wish I had time to change the whole uniform, but I doubt 

it'd make any difference. Let's hope the news isn't too bad this time." 
 

"Sir, I doubt very much that even General Blitzkrieg could do very much to 

make the situation worse," said Beeker. He paused a beat, then added, helpfully, 
"Of course, if there's any way he can make it worse, I'm sure he'll be glad to do it." 
 
General Blitzkrieg was smiling. It was not a pleasant smile, but Phule tried to 
ignore that and concentrate on what the general was saying. "Captain, I must admit 
we haven't always seen eye to eye, but it seems somebody's bought the image 
you've created for your unit. Your company has been requested for an assignment 
that might be a genuine feather in the Legion's cap-assuming your people are up to 
it, of course. Wouldn't want to send them if they can't deliver, you know." 
 

"I'm pleased to hear that, sir," Phule said cautiously. He stood at attention, 

facing the general's holographic image across the room. He knew Blitzkrieg could 
see his every move, as well as he could see the general's. He would have to make 
an effort to keep his emotions off his face-never easy with someone as infuriating 
as the general. 
 

"I have complete confidence in my people," he continued. "What sort of 

assignment, sir?" 
 

The general's smile stayed on. "There's a world that just got over a civil war. 

Well, to tell the truth, the Federation had to step in toward the end and stop things 
from getting out of hand. The Legion had a part in that, I'm proud to say. They've 
got a new government in power, and they're making progress toward putting things 

back on track. But of course, there are factions that aren't happy with the new 
order, and so the Federation has been supplying troops to keep things in hand. A 
peacekeeping team from the Regular Army is being rotated out, and we've 
managed to convince Ambassador Gottesman to accept a Legion unit as their 
replacement. It took some politicking, believe me, but when the ambassador found 
out the Legion was available, he asked if we could send your unit." 
 

"That sounds like a genuine coup, sir," said Phule. "What's the planet called, 

if I may ask?" 
 

"It's got some silly name-let's see..." The general frowned, then leaned over 

and punched a button on a computer somewhere offscreen. "Landoor. They call 
their world Landoor." 
 

Phule thought a moment. "I don't recognize the name, sir-not that it makes 

much difference, of course. You say they requested my company specifically?" 
 

"That's right, Captain," said the general. The predatory smile was back. "I 

admit I was surprised-you haven't always been my idea of a model officer, you 
know. But you have had a knack for getting favorable news coverage, and 
evidently that's paid dividends. All things considered, I must admit it hasn't hurt the 
Legion as much as it might have. So we've decided it's time for you to wrap up the 
guard assignment on Lorelei and get ready to transfer to Landoor." 
 

"Yes, sir," said Phule. Then, after a pause, he continued, "Uh, as you no 

doubt realize, sir, my company is the majority stockholder in the Fat Chance 
Casino. That makes us the contract holders, and naturally we're very concerned 
about continued security after we're transferred away. We'll need sufficient time to 
arrange a replacement before we can leave." 
 

The general's smile vanished. "Captain, this is no time for barracks-room 

lawyering. There's a whole planet asking for your company to protect its people, 
and all you're worried about is your pocketbook. That's not the Legion way, and I'll 
be hanged if I'm going to stand for it." 
 

Phule held his ground. "Sir, with the general's permission, may I point out 

that the security of Lorelei is of concern to far more people than just my company? 
Several thousand people arrive on this station every day, staying for an average of 
five days, and they spend an average of three thousand dollars apiece during their 
stay-on hotels, food, gifts, and entertainment as well as on gambling. They come 
with families and children, too-and they expect a safe environment. Some of them 
are retired, and a lot are ordinary working people who saved up their money for a 
dream vacation. Any breakdown in casino security affects them more than it does 
my pocketbook-because from their point of view, they have much more at stake." 
 

"Fine sentiments," said Blitzkrieg. "Or they would be, coming from any other 

officer. Coming from you, I suspect they're a ploy to look altruistic as you protect 
your own interests. Quite frankly, Captain, you aren't a team player." 
 

"I take exception to that, sir," Phule said, rather hotly. "I treat my people not 

just as members of a team, but as a family. Believe me, these troops have very 
little tolerance for posturing. They'd find me out in a minute if I was merely paying 
lip service to that dogma." 

 

"Perhaps," said General Blitzkrieg, momentarily taken aback by Phule's 

fervor. Then he recovered his aplomb; he leaned forward and pointed a finger at 
the transmitting camera, and at the man viewing his image. "But the Legion can't 
permit officers to set their own conditions for accepting an assignment. If you 
refuse the assignment, you'd better be ready to justify that decision to a court-
martial. And I can tell you now, Captain, all your headlines won't do you a lick of 
good if it comes to an insubordination charge. And I'll make sure it does come to 
that. Now, are you going to accept the Landoor mission or not?" 
 

Phule didn't hesitate. "Sir, my company will go where the Legion sends it." 

 

"Good, that's settled, then," said Blitzkrieg, although without great 

enthusiasm. It was easy to guess that he'd wanted Phule to give him an excuse for 
an insubordination charge. He frowned at Phule and said, "You will ready your 
company for shipment to Landoor in-"he turned and looked at the readout again-
"sixty standard days. That will be all, Captain!" Blitzkrieg broke the connection. 
 

Phule sighed, and turned to Beeker. "Well, that's done," he said with a 

weary smile. 
 

"Yes, sir," said the butler. "Now you can withdraw your company from 

Lorelei, and no one can question your motives or impugn your honor." 
 

"True," said Phule. "But that's not the whole story, Beeker. If Blitzkrieg 

thought I really wanted this transfer, he'd break his back to prevent it. Now, he'll 
make sure we stay there long enough for me to get the unit back on track. This 
new assignment will give the company a worthy common goal-and that kind of 
motivation is exactly what's been missing here." 
 

"I suppose so, sir," said Beeker, skeptically. "I'd think the opportunity to build 

the company's portfolio would have been enough to motivate them, but perhaps I 
fail to comprehend the military mentality." 
 

Phule cracked a wry grin. "Military mentality? After watching my interview 

with the general, I'm surprised you even use those two words in the same 
sentence." 
 

Beeker sniffed. "Sir, I suspect that the general's mental powers are beneath 

ordinary calculation. However, some of your troops show a modicum of intellect, 
albeit in my opinion largely misdirected. It was to them that I referred." 
 

"Thank goodness," said Phule. "I was afraid it was some backhanded 

reference to me." 
 

"Sir," said Beeker, pulling himself up even straighter than usual, "let me 

assure you that, had I wished to refer to you in a derogatory manner, I would have 
done so in such a way as to leave no doubt as to my intentions." 
 

"Good. I was afraid you might not be feeling well," said Phule. "Well, that still 

leaves us one question to settle. Now that we've gotten something we want from 
the general, what are we going to do with it?" 
 

"Well, sir, I think you had better begin by informing the company," said 

Beeker. "Some of them, I suspect, will be a good bit less sanguine than you are 
about departing this station." 
 

"Man, I'm gonna miss this joint," said Do-Wop, setting his lunch plate down at a 
table with three fellow legionnaires. Word about the company's reassignment had 
gone out in midmorning. Within an hour it was the only topic of conversation 
among the Omega Mob. 
 

"Are you really?" Super-Gnat raised her eyebrows. "I'll be glad to get back to 

a real planet, myself. Something about natural sunshine and fresh air..." 
 

"I be happy if not too much sunshine," said Tusk-anini, who came from a 

nocturnal race. "But fresh air good to breathe. Soft ground feel good underfoot, 
too." 
 

Do-Wop had already begun shovelling food into his mouth. But between two 

forkfuls he mumbled, "I'm a city kid, y'know. I hear the place we're headed for is the 
real boonies jungles and swamps. If they got any sidewalks at all, I bet they take 
'em in after dark." 
 

"That not true," said Tusk-anini. "Landoor City have more people than 

Lorelei, lots of buildings, too. I know-I study maps and books." 
 

"Yeah, but what's there to do?" growled Do-Wop. "I mean, here we got all 

kinds of entertainment, lotsa places to grab some action, y'know? What's Landoor 
got?" 
 

"Not as much as here," said Sushi, who had done his own research as soon 

as he'd learned of the new assignment. "It had some pretty lively resorts back 
when the mines were working, but that was in your grandpa's time. Now the main 
attraction is the scenery-some nice beaches and mountains, they say. And 
supposedly some pretty good amusement parks." 
 

"Hey, that could be cool," said Do-Wop. "I ain't been on a good roller coaster 

since before I joined the Legion." 
 

"That's not why we're going there," Super-Gnat pointed out. She took 

another of the warm butterhorn rolls Escrima had made for that night's meal, and 
said, "We've got a job to do, is all. I'm glad we're not being sent to some iceball 
asteroid to do it. In the Legion, you take what you can get. Could you pass the 
butter, Sushi?" 
 

Sushi handed her the butter plate and said, "Gnat's right, you know. We've 

been pretty lucky, since the captain took over. You watch the news, you realize 
how many rotten places we could've been going." 
 

"I don't pay no attention to the news," scoffed Do-Wop. "Waste of time, if 

you ask me." 
 

"That why we no ask you," said Tusk-anini. "Sushi and Gnat telling truth-

plenty bad places to go to." 
 

"Yeah, and I'm afraid we're about to go to one of 'em," said Do-Wop, helping 

himself to a roll. "Those people just had a war, right? So some of 'em must still be 
shooting each other, if they need peacekeepers. Maybe they start shooting at us. 
Don't tell me that's better than what we got here." 
 

"You don't want to hear, so why you want us tell you?" said Tusk-anini. "Me, 

I wait and see new place. We going there whether like it or not. Tusk-anini will try 
and like it." 

 

"That's the attitude I like," said Brandy, stopping to eavesdrop on the 

conversation. "It figures Do-Wop starts griping about a place before he even gets 
there." 
 

"Ah, give us a break, Top," said Do-Wop, looking up with a hurt expression. 

"A guy's got a right to gripe a little bit, ain't he?" 
 

"Sure, gripe all you want," said Brandy. "But don't expect anybody to give 

you any sympathy if it turns out you actually like the place." She grinned and went 
on her way to the dessert counter. 
 

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" said Do-Wop, as the others at the 

table laughed. 
 

"I don't know for sure," said Super-Gnat, "but I think it means she expects 

you to piss and moan no matter what's going on." 
 

"Well, sure," said Do-Wop, puzzled. "What else is a guy supposed to do to 

pass away the time?" 
 

The others at the table laughed again. 

 
"So you're going away," said Laverna. She and Beeker sat in a softly lit back booth 
in the Tumbling Dice Casino's Domino Bar. The other tables near them were 
empty; this time of afternoon, most of the casino's customers were at the gambling 
tables. Anybody who wanted a drink could have it delivered to the floor. That made 
this a perfect spot for a quiet talk. 
 

"My job is moving to another planet," said Beeker, shrugging. "I can't very 

well do anything but go with it." 
 

Laverna toyed with her glass. "I don't believe that for one minute," she said, 

staring at the butler. "You could retire right now and be comfortable for life. Don't 
bother to deny it-I looked it up after a few things you said, and I know just how 
much you have. You're not going to be buying a private asteroid as your retirement 
home, but you're not going to miss that regular paycheck, either. So you damn well 
could stay here, if you felt like it." 
 

"I suppose so-although this place is hardly my ideal retirement home." A few 

bars of brassy music came over the sound system as Beeker paused, weighing his 
words carefully. He continued, "Since you make no secret of having looked into my 
financial state, I will admit having researched yours. It appears to me that there is 
no financial reason for you to remain with your employer, either." 
 

"No financial reason," said Laverna. She lowered her head, then looked up 

at Beeker. "Still, I won't be buying that ticket any time soon. I think you know what I 
mean, Beeker." 
 

"Yes, I understand what you are saying," said Beeker. "Let me point out 

that, if you really wish to leave, there are ways it can be done. Once you are off-
station, it becomes that much easier for you to disappear." 
 

"Yes, if I don't mind spending the rest of my life hiding," said Laverna. She 

shook her head. "I'd mind that less than most, I suppose-time to read all the books 
I've never had time for, time to try writing something of my own. I've never lived the 
kind of life that attracts attention. But that's not the problem. I know too much, and 

Maxine can't afford to let me out of her control. Even if she were gone..." 
 

"Her successors would worry about what you might reveal-or might be made 

to reveal, if you turned against them. And the successors would have no personal 
ties to you to make them hesitate." Beeker leaned forward and lowered his voice 
so the music prevented his words from being heard beyond their table. "Still, if you 
wanted to try, my employer and the Space Legion have resources beyond those of 
any private person." 
 

Laverna was quiet for a long moment before saying, "And why should Phule 

use those resources for my benefit? You don't expect me to believe he'll do it out of 
benevolence-or because you have asked him to help me. As for the Legion-I don't 
really think I'm the sort to join-not at my age, anyhow." 
 

"Actually, there's rather a tradition of people joining the Legion because they 

want to escape the past," said Beeker with a thin smile. He sat back up and looked 
around at the garishly decorated room, before leaning forward and continuing. "In 
my employer's unit, at least, the food and accommodations are as good as in any 
luxury hotel-and the retirement plan is actually rather good. Granted, the work is 
sometimes dangerous...but you're used to that, of course." 
 

"Stop it," whispered Laverna. "You're starting to sound like a recruiting 

sergeant." She peered at him intently. "You don't really mean it, do you?" 
 

Beeker steepled his fingers. "I merely offer it as an alternative to staying 

here, recognizing as you do that eventually someone will decide that you know 
more than is good for them. As an intelligent and perceptive woman, you must 
have given some thought to making your escape before that moment comes. It 
seems to me that now, with your employer's influence waning and competitors 
beginning to circle, is as logical a time as any. But of course you have to judge the 
moment for yourself." 
 

Laverna's eyes looked from one side to the other, making certain nobody 

was within hearing distance. "You know, Beeker, you might be right about that," 
she said. "I'm not going to make any decisions on the spur of the moment, you 
understand. But you have given me something to think about." 
 

"Don't think too long about it," said Beeker. "The opportunity won't be here 

much longer, you know." 
 

"I know," said Laverna, and she fell silent. The music system was playing a 

sinuous minor-key dance tune from two decades ago, music from when they'd both 
been young. An innocent time, before either had known much responsibility. 
 

The conversation, when it resumed, moved on to other things. 

 
 
 8 
Journal #329 
 

The average visitor to Lorelei never even learned the location of Gladstone 

Park, let alone set foot in it. It was not one of the space station's leading tourist 
attractions-in fact, it was not designed for tourists at all. Its official function was to 
supplement the station's air-recycling system, cleaning the excess CO, from the 

atmosphere and replacing it with fresh, organically generated oxygen. The 
chemical processors were as close to perfect as to make no difference, but many 
customers persisted in believing that air "naturally" cleaned by twenty square 
kilometers of trees and grass was somehow better than the "artificial" stuff the 
recyclers produced. 
 

Had it been their choice, the casino owners would have had no compunction 

about digging up the grass and trees and replacing it with a few more casinos. 
After all, it contributed nothing to the station's economy, which was almost entirely 
gambling-based. The tourists who'd come to Lorelei wanted artificial light and late 
hours and the frantic hustle-bustle of money changing hands. Just knowing that the 
park existed was a sort of security blanket for them. Very few tourists wanted to 
actually go there. 
 

But the full-time residents-the workers in the hotels, casinos, bars, and 

restaurants-needed someplace to unwind, someplace they could look at a green 
surface other than the top of a craps table. A croupier might find it rejuvenating to 
ride a bicycle on his day off, and a cocktail waitress might enjoy sitting on a bench 
and resting her eyes by looking at flower beds. Even the bosses found the park a 
great place to take the workers for a corporate outing, to display their benevolence 
by setting out an opulent spread, and to prove that they still had the common touch 
by getting out on the field for a pickup gravball game with the employees... 
 
Shortly after its arrival on the space station, Phule's Company had begun making 
regular use of Gladstone Park for training exercises. Its variety of "natural" terrain, 
from dense woods to open meadows to rocky hillsides made it a useful simulation 
of conditions likely to be encountered planetside on many worlds. After all, Phule 
had no illusion that the company's assignment to Lorelei was a permanent one. He 
knew that sooner or later, the Legion's top brass would give Omega Company an 
assignment that put it to the utmost test. When the call came, Phule wanted his 
legionnaires to be ready for it. 
 

But today was a special exercise-not least because so many spectators had 

come. It was not unusual for a small group of Lorelei's inhabitants to observe the 
legionnaires' maneuvers. Some of these, Phule knew, were spies for rival casinos 
trying to spot some weakness in the troops guarding the Fat Chance Casino. He 
accepted the challenge and made sure the show was always sufficiently daunting 
to discourage anyone foolish enough to think about taking over the casino by force-
not that any had been willing to make the attempt, after the convincing defeat of 
Maxie's bid. 
 

Today, though, the exercise had been publicized, and had drawn a good 

crowd of curiosity seekers anxious to get a glimpse of the legendary Gambolts. 
The publicity had stressed the cat-like aliens' reputation as the finest troops in the 
galaxy, as well as their being the first Gambolts to volunteer to serve in a unit with 
other species. The publicity had not mentioned Phule's plans for the exercise. 
Since such plans were not usually announced in advance, nobody thought to 
comment on it. 

 

Phule looked down at the gathering crowd from atop a portable observation 

tower the legionnaires had constructed to one side of the exercise field. There 
among the spectators were the three Renegades, peering intently at the Space 
Legion troops assembling below his position. Looking to see if Chocolate Harry has 
come along, he thought. Of course, the supply sergeant had been excused from 
today's activities. C.H. would have to deal with the Renegades eventually-that was 
a given-but Phule was not going to force him to abandon his defenses. The 
confrontation, when it occurred, would take place on ground of Harry's choosing. 
Phule thought he knew how to manipulate the outlaw bikers onto that territory. That 
was, in fact, one purpose of today's exercise. 
 

He scanned the crowd with his stereoculars (not the milspec Legion-issue 

model, but a custom set from Optronix Ltd., with extra memory for stored images 
and enhancements for infrared, glare reduction, and infinite focus). Right away, he 
spotted two more familiar faces: reporter Jennie Higgins and holophotographer 
Sidney, covering the show for Interstellar News Services. Phule's Company had 
been hot media fare ever since the commanding officer's flamboyant style had 
come to Jennie's attention. The resulting attention had been a mixed blessing, but 
on the whole Phule was glad to have had it. Better a reputation you had to strive to 
live up to than one you wished you could live down. 
 

There were other familiar faces among the spectators, too. There were half 

a dozen he recognized as security chiefs for rival casinos, undoubtedly here to pick 
up hints on his troops' capabilities. And despite her official abandonment of the 
attempt to run Phule out of business, Maxie had sent her assistant Laverna to view 
the happenings-or perhaps she had come on her own, although she didn't give the 
impression of being the outdoor, spectator sports type. 
 

On the other hand, the crowd was full of the spectator sports types, most of 

whom had come to be entertained-and to bet on whatever was about to transpire. 
Several bookies had set up impromptu stands, ready to set odds and cover 
wagers. (It didn't matter that the exact details hadn't been announced; there was 
bound to be something to bet on, and somebody willing to risk a few units on the 
outcome.) Phule smiled; once the crowd saw what he had in mind, the bookies 
would be swamped with business. He was almost tempted to send Beeker over to 
place some bets on his behalf, but there was little point to it. Any bet large enough 
to be interesting would skew the odds to the point that he'd get a minuscule return-
assuming the bookies were willing to cover it in the first place. 
 

And, reluctant as he was to admit it, it wouldn't be a sure return. He was 

gambling-even without placing bets, he was gambling-on a system that was about 
to be put to its most strenuous test. It had been risky enough to pit his whole 
company against the Red Eagles, the Regular Army's elite company. Now he was 
pitting raw rookies against Gambolts, the most respected fighters known. He'd find 
plenty of bettors willing to go against him-and it was not going to be a sure thing. 
 

"Everything's set, Captain," said a voice at his elbow. 

 

Phule awoke from his musing with a start; he hadn't even seen Brandy 

approaching. "Good work, Brandy. No point keeping all these people waiting, then. 

Let's get it started!" 
 

"Right, Captain!" Brandy turned to the small group of uniformed figures 

waiting a short distance away, and barked out her orders. "Gambolts-front and 
center!" 
 

The three Gambolts moved gracefully through the ranks of legionnaires and 

came to attention. 
 

"The obstacle course is designed to build the confidence of the entire unit," 

said Brandy, speaking for the onlookers' ears as well as for her troops'. "This 
company has its own special way of running the course, and you'll learn that in due 
time. But today we have a special exercise for our new members. Flight Leftenant 
Qual, our Zenobian military attaché, will be assisting us. Are you ready, Leftenant?" 
 

"Ready, Sergeant Cognac," said the Zenobian's translator as the little 

lizardlike alien stepped forward, his teeth displayed in what Phule knew was 
intended as a smile, but which most of the spectators instinctively flinched away 
from. Those who paid attention to such details would have noticed that Qual was 
wearing not his regular dress uniform, but black fatigues and running shoes. 
 

Brandy turned to the three Gambolts again. "The Leftenant will run the 

course, and we will give him a three minute head start. Then you three will try to 
capture him and bring him to the finish line. He will attempt to reach the end under 
his own power. You will take every precaution not to injure one another, but short 
of that, all tactics are legal. Any questions?" 
 

The Gambolts shook their heads-a gesture they'd picked up from their 

human counterparts since joining the Legion. "Good," said Brandy. "Leftenant, start 
when you're ready." 
 

"Bonsai!" shouted the Zenobian, and he took off down the course. 

 

Brandy watched him take off, then turned back to the troops. "Oh yeah, we 

forgot to tell you one other detail about this exercise. Three minutes after you 
Gambolts start, the rest of the recruits will follow you. It'll be their job to prevent you 
from capturing the leftenant. Again, anything they want to do is legit, as long as 
nobody's trying to hurt the others." 
 

Surprise blossomed on the recruits' faces. "Sergeant, is this some sort of 

joke?" said Mahatma. "Of course, we're going to give this our best try. But we've 
seen what these Gambolts can do. They'll be at the finish, with Leftenant Qual in 
tow, before most of us have cleared the first barrier." 
 

"Don't give up before you start," said Brandy, her eyes fixed on her 

chronometer. Qual was barrelling down the course, showing the same agility he'd 
demonstrated while leading Phule's legionnaires in a not-so-merry chase through 
the hotel. "Two minutes to go." 
 

"Qual may have enough of a head start to get there before the Gambolts 

can catch him," muttered one of the other recruits. "That's our best chance of 
winning." Several heads in the ranks nodded in agreement. 
 

Meanwhile, the crowd had grasped what was going on, and was rapidly 

trying to place bets before the issue was settled. 
 

"That lizard's quicker than a flash," said one spectator. "I got fifty says he 

gets to the end before the cats catch him." 
 

"I'm offering two-to-one on the lizard, even money on the cats," replied the 

bookie he'd approached. 
 

"No way, you gotta give me three-to-one!" Because of the Gambolts' 

formidable reputation-and reports of Garbo's quick capture of Qual in the Fat 
Chance lobby-the heaviest betting was on the Gambolts. Soon, Qual's supporters 
were getting odds of five- or six-to-one. Nobody seemed to consider the human 
recruits a serious factor. 
 

"One minute," said Brandy. The Gambolts were stretching their muscles, 

limbering up for the run. Like the rest of the recruits, they would be carrying full 
packs for the run-a tradition Phule had insisted on, even though it apparently gave 
the Gambolts an even greater advantage over the human rookies. Pound for 
pound, their catlike bodies possessed more raw strength than even the best-
trained human athlete could match. 
 

Suddenly one of the onlookers let out a gasp. "Look! The lizard's stopped!" 

he shouted, pointing down the course. Sure enough, after covering approximately 
a quarter of the distance, Qual had come to an open area, stopped, and was now 
sitting down on the ground in the middle of it. 
 

"What the devil is he doing?" said one spectator, who'd been betting heavily 

on the Zenobian. "Is he worn out, or has he gone plumb crazy?" 
 

"It's a fix!" yelled another bettor. "I want my money back!" 

 

"No way, buddy," said the bookie who'd taken his wager. "You can't afford to 

lose, don't bet your money. Anybody wants to hedge their bets, I'm givin' two-to-
five on the cats." 
 

"Gambolts go!" barked Brandy, and almost as if flung from a catapult, the 

three Gambolts were streaking down the course, making an incredible pace 
without showing any strain at all. All three had their eyes on Qual, who lounged 
almost insolently in plain sight a short distance down the course. Some bettors 
turned to admire the Gambolts' speed and grace, but others were waving wads of 
money at the bookies. Within less than a minute, the odds had dropped to one-to-
ten. The bookies did their best to stall these bettors, trying to accommodate the few 
suckers still willing to bet on the underdog Qual. 
 

"OK," said Brandy, seeing the Gambolts well down the course. She turned 

to face the recruits and put her fists on her hips. "Listen up, people," she barked. 
"You're Legion, now, and what's more, you're Omega Mob, and that means family. 
We run the obstacle course our own way, and you're gonna see that right now." 
She reached to her chest and grasped a whistle hanging from a lanyard, put it to 
her mouth, and blew a shrill blast. 
 

Out of the crowd, where they'd mingled unnoticed in mufti, came the Omega 

Mob. Not all of them-the guard detail at the Fat Chance had to be kept up to 
strength-but enough to multiply the strength of the recruit's squad tenfold. "This is 
your family," said Brandy. "We all run together-officers, NCOs, recruits, humans, 
Synthians, Gambolts-everybody! Let's show 'em how we do it." 
 

Nobody bothered to ask whether the Gambolts' three minute head start had 

expired. The spectators watched, open-mouthed, as the Omega Mob, with Phule 
and Brandy in the lead, surged forward, and the new recruits were swept up with 
them. 
 

Up ahead, the Gambolts had closed to within a few dozen yards of Flight 

Leftenant Qual, who had risen to his feet again. Now the Zenobian began to 
display the same kind of speed and elusiveness he'd given the legionnaires during 
the chase through the casino, with half the Omega Mob in pursuit. 
 

Dukes had decided to try a full-speed-ahead charge at his quarry, and so he 

was nearly within arms' reach of Qual when the lizardlike alien feinted to the left, 
took a sliding step to the right, and then suddenly dived under the Gambolt's grasp. 
The maneuver put Qual in the clear for a moment, as Dukes somersaulted, 
recovering quickly from his headlong dive. 
 

Qual did not have long to think about his next move, as Rube was on him 

almost instantly. This time, Qual put on a burst of speed directly away from Rube-
and toward the recovering Dukes, who eagerly spread his arms to contain the 
fleeing Zenobian. 
 

Just as it looked as if the two Gambolts had succeeded in cornering him, 

Qual made another sudden change of direction, and Rube, unable to slow down 
quickly enough, plowed into Dukes. The two went down in a heap, and lay there 
stunned as Qual sprinted away. That left Garbo, who had held back a few paces 
from the other two pursuers, the only Gambolt still on her feet. She changed 
direction, following Qual as if she were attached to his tail with a sixfoot wire. 
 

Qual had taken a twisting course, changing direction every few steps, but 

now he straightened out and sprinted directly back toward the starting line of the 
obstacle course. In pursuit was Garbo, sticking close but gaining no ground. A few 
yards behind her, Dukes and Rube were back on their feet, in the chase again. 
And ahead of Qual was the Omega Mob, picking up speed as it ran the course. 
 

By now, the spectators were in a frenzy. Perched on a hill overlooking the 

course, they could see all the action. The bookies were now accepting side bets on 
which Gambolt would catch the Zenobian, with Garbo a clear favorite, although 
both Dukes and Rube were drawing some support. Despite Qual's impressive 
show of speed, only the die-hard longshot players were still betting that he would 
elude all three pursuers. 
 

And, in fact, Qual seemed to be running into a trap of his own making. 

Directly ahead of him was a high wall, a much more formidable barrier for the little 
lizard than for his pursuers. Qual had managed to scale the wall on his way out 
onto the course, but nowhere near as easily as the Gambolts, who had sailed over 
it almost without slowing down. Sensing their quarry's predicament, Dukes and 
Rube spread out to either side, effectively closing off the Zenobian's escape in 
those directions. As if conceding defeat, Qual stopped perhaps ten feet short of the 
wall, turning to face his pursuers with a smile. 
 

Then, behind him, the wall fell down. 

 

On the other side awaited the Omega Mob-over a hundred strong. 

 

Phule stood at the head of the company. He pointed forward and shouted, 

"To the finish line! All together!" 
 

The Omega Mob moved forward like a tidal wave. As they passed Qual and 

the Gambolts, they picked them up and carried them along with them, chairing 
them on the shoulders of their comrades, cheering as if they'd won a gravball 
championship. There were obstacles in their way, but it didn't matter. The Mob 
didn't slow until they'd reached the finish line, and behind them the course was flat 
as a pancake. 
 
"I'm still not sure I understand what happened out there," said Jennie Higgins, 
leaning back in her chair and clasping her hands behind her head. "The Gambolts 
chased the Zenobian around, and then the rest of the company came and swept 
them all along to the finish line, without settling anything-the bookies tried to argue 
that the Gambolts had lost, but eventually the bettors made them call off all the 
bets. What were you trying to accomplish?" 
 

Phule smiled. It was easy to smile, sitting with someone as pretty as Jennie 

across the table from him. "There were two things we needed to do for the 
company, and I think we did them," he said. "And there were a couple of longer-
range things I hoped we'd accomplish, although the jury's still out on those." 
 

"And are you going to tell me what those things were, or do I have to sit here 

and guess?" asked Jennie, teasingly. Phule shrugged. "Oh, most of it's no secret. 
The first thing we needed to do was show the new recruits they're part of the 
company-family, is more like it. That's the basic purpose of our obstacle course 
exercise, really. We run the course as a company, rather than individually, to show 
everyone that together they can overcome things very few of them could singly." 
 

"Yes, that was clear," said Jennie. "That strong esprit de corps has marked 

your company as long as I've known it. But that doesn't explain why you let the 
Zenobian run out first, or sent the Gambolts after him." 
 

"Leftenant Qual got off on a bad foot when he came to join us," said Phule. 

"Some of the company had the impression he was spying on us. Well, a couple of 
nights back he rescued one of our people who got in a tough spot, which did a lot 
to change that false impression. But I wanted to solidify the company's sense that 
he was working with us, and luckily the Leftenant was willing to play the role I 
offered him, as a rabbit for the Gambolts to chase." 
 

"Willing?" Jennie laughed. "It looked to me as if he was really enjoying 

himself out there. At least, as far as I can judge a Zenobian's expression." 
 

"Yes, I think he was," said Phule. "He has kind of an odd sense of humor, 

but I think he gets a kick out of being pursued. Possibly because, on their own 
world, his people are the hunters, and so it amuses him to play the quarry instead." 
 

"OK, that makes sense, but why have only the Gambolts chase him, instead 

of the whole company?" 
 

"Two reasons," said Phule. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Now 

we're getting to the part I don't want spread too widely-though I suppose some 
people will guess it by themselves." 
 

"I won't write anything that could damage the company," said Jennie. "You 

should know that, by now." 
 

"You've been very supportive," said Phule. "Anyhow, you know the 

Gambolts' reputation as the finest fighting troops in the Galaxy. They've always 
served in their own elite units, so it was quite an honor when they asked to join my 
company." 
 

"I can imagine," said Jennie. Then, seeing Phule's expression, she guessed, 

"But it has its downside, too." 
 

"You've got it," said Phule. "They're so obviously superior to our other new 

recruits that it was affecting morale. I had to counteract that. Chasing Qual let them 
show how good they are, which is important-they need to feel success, too." 
 

"But not catching Qual right away took them down a notch, as well, I 

assume." 
 

Phule nodded. "They didn't manage to get Qual cornered until they worked 

as a team, which was what I hoped for. They tend to be loners, and it was 
important to get them thinking as members of a team. That was a bit of a gamble 
on my part-it depended on Qual staying free until then." 
 

Jennie put a forefinger on her chin. "And right when they got him cornered, 

the company swept them all up." 
 

"Yes, that's exactly it," said Phule, smacking his fist into his palm. "I wanted 

the company to catch up to the Gambolts just at the moment they'd succeeded in 
running Qual down-to make them associate that feeling of success with being part 
of the whole company. The timing was tricky, but Qual carried it off-and I don't 
mind telling you, it was a relief that he managed to. It all fell together when the rest 
of the company gathered them up and treated them as comrades. I wanted to 
inspire them to stop thinking of themselves as competing individuals, and become 
members of the family-to take pride in each other's abilities. Now we can build on 
that." 
 

"Well, I hope you're right," said Jennie. "After what I saw today, I'm glad 

they're on our side. I'd hate to have somebody that good as my enemy." 
 

"Jennie, we count you among our very best friends," said Phule, smiling 

even more broadly than before. If her response was typical, the exercise had a 
chance to achieve his final, unspoken goal. Now, he had to hope the right people 
had been watching... 
 
 
 9 
The shortest route from the officer's mess to the Comm center went through the 
hotel's ballroom wing. Phule and Lieutenant Armstrong, on their way to their offices 
after a working breakfast, happened to pass the Grand Ballroom as Flight 
Leftenant Qual, grinning from ear to ear, led the recruits in warm-up exercises 
before unarmed combat training. He was leading them through a set of jumping 
jacks to an improvised cadence that, after the translating circuits had mangled it, 
had even Brandy falling out with laughter. The recruits looked as enthusiastic as 
they'd been since joining the Legion. 

 

Phule smiled at the sight. "Well, I think we've finally scotched the rumor that 

Qual's a spy," he said. 
 

"Yes, sir," said Armstrong, striding alongside. "It was a stroke of genius to 

have him play bait for the Gambolts in that exercise. That made him the underdog, 
and the recruits were all rooting for him. That broke down a lot of barriers." 
 

"Yes, that went a long way toward solving the problem," said Phule. "But we 

got a piece of sheer luck, when Qual rescued Gears-you know him, from the motor 
pool from robbers out in town. That stun ray of his probably saved our man's life." 
 

"Yes, that was very lucky," said Armstrong. "He couldn't have sat down and 

planned things any better to rehabilitate his reputation." 
 

Phule came to a sudden stop and looked at his lieutenant. "Hmm-tell me the 

truth, Armstrong. You don't think that could be exactly what happened, do you?" 
 

Armstrong's jaw fell. "Why, that's imposs...No, I guess it's not impossible. It 

is far-fetched, but I suppose Qual could have arranged it. But if the robbers were 
hired to take the fall, or tricked into it, Qual couldn't be sure they wouldn't talk." 
 

"I think you should call to Station Security and make sure those fellows are 

thoroughly questioned before they're sent off to prison," said Phule. "Odds are 
they're smalltime robbers who picked the wrong victim. But if there's anything fishy 
about Qual's being there to make the rescue, we need to know about it as soon as 
possible." 
 

"Yes, sir," said Armstrong, although he didn't look happy. "That's the way 

things have been lately, isn't it? Just as we think a problem's solved, it turns out 
there's a new twist we haven't thought of." 
 

"I'm afraid that's the way of it, Lieutenant," said Phule, nodding 

sympathetically. Armstrong always wanted problems to be simple, with simple 
solutions. It had taken Phule a good while to learn that real life didn't always work 
that way. With luck, his lieutenant would make the necessary adjustment before he 
had a command of his own. It was one thing to go through life thinking you could 
ignore all the shades of gray in the world; it was another thing to stake the lives 
and safety of people under your command on that assumption. Well, Armstrong 
was learning, a bit slower than he might have, but there was hope for him. 
 

The two officers burst through the door to the command center together. 

Mother shot them a panicked look, then ducked behind her console. "Good 
morning, Mother," said Phule. As usual, the reply was inaudible. Phule gave a sigh, 
and continued into his own office. He'd been working on the assumption that 
pretending everything was perfectly normal might keep Mother from ducking into a 
shell every time she had to deal with someone in person. The jury was still out on 
this approach. 
 

But when he entered his private office, the light on his desktop 

communicator was blinking. He picked it up. "Yes, Mother?" 
 

"Well, honey-bun, I thought you'd never notice," came the saucy voice in his 

ear, suddenly bold now that she didn't have to look him in the face. "Got some 
people want to see you, not that I can figure out why. I assume you're still not 
interested in talking to those pesky IRS agents." 

 

"That's right, Mother," said Phule. "What did you tell them?" 

 

"Your morning schedule's full, they should check back later, like ten years 

from now. It's close enough to true, sweetums. You haven't left yourself much time 
to get organized for this reassignment." 
 

"We'll be ready," said Phule. "And with any luck, I can put off the IRS until 

we've left the station. That'll give Beeker time to work on my taxes. What else is on 
the menu today?" 
 

"Another group of civilians dyin' to see you," she said. "You'll love this 

bunch-all three of 'em look like flunkouts from charm school. Act like it, too. You 
wanna know their names?" 
 

"Three of them, you say?" Phule's interest suddenly picked up. "Sure, let's 

have the names." 
 

"OK, sweetie." There was a moment while Mother retrieved the names. 

"Stonecutter Johnson, Joe the Blade, and Asteroid Annie. Representing the 
Renegades Hovercycle Club, they say. Shall I give 'em the brush-off?" 
 

Phule sat up straight in his chair. "Oh, send them in, by all means," he said, 

suddenly alert. "But first, why don't you patch me through to the supply depot? I 
think the time may finally have come to solve another of our outstanding problems." 
 
"So, Sarge, when these Renegade guys show up, what do we do?" Double-X 
peered through a slit between the board Chocolate Harry had nailed over the 
casino loading dock, now converted to Omega Company's supply depot. The view 
outside was unchanged. 
 

"We kick ass," said Louie's translator voice. The Synthian brandished his 

automatic shotgun, as if eager for the impending showdown. "Blow them away." 
 

"Easy for you to say," said Chocolate Harry, "Problem is, it ain't enough to 

blow away the first guys they send. We finish this bunch off, there'll be others-and 
more after them. These dudes don't give up a grudge just because they have a 
tough time settling it." 
 

"Yeah, I can get into that," said Double-X. "Back on Crumbo, where I grew 

up, the Slambeens and the Ratzers used to go at it like that. Those were some 
tough guys-steal the glimmer right off a cragbolt, and laugh about it like it was 
nothin'." 
 

"Yeah, well, you never saw me back down from no cragbolt, neither," said 

Chocolate Harry, sneering. He asserted this with a certainty bolstered by the fact 
that he had never to his knowledge been on the same planet as a cragbolt. "A 
man's got a rep to live up to, he can't pick and choose his fights." 
 

"I guess that's right, Sarge," said Double-X, who like most sensible 

legionnaires was more in awe of his own sergeant than of any potential adversary-
human, alien, or monster. 
 

"Somebody coming," said Louie, in what sounded like a hoarse whisper 

despite the translator's limited range of expression. 
 

Chocolate Harry leaned over to look at the monitor screen showing the 

output of the security cameras he had covering the approaches to the supply 

compound. "Relax," he said, after a moment. "It's the captain." Then, after a longer 
pause he added, "At least it looks like the captain." 
 

"Should I challenge him, Sarge?" asked Double-X, picking up the 

microphone. 
 

"Nah, I'll hail him on his private frequency," said C.H. "The Renegades might 

be able to rig somebody up to look like him, but they can't jigger the whole comm 
system without a lot of work. That ain't their style, anyway-more likely they'd walk 
up to the door and call me out." He reached to activate the wrist communicator, but 
before he could do so, Phule's unmistakable voice came from the speaker. 
 

"C.H., are you in there? I have something we need to talk about." 

 

"Sure, Cap'n," said the supply sergeant. "Come on in-we aren't gonna shoot 

you." 
 

"Oh, I wasn't worried about you shooting me," said Phule's voice. "But you 

might start trying to shoot the people I've got with me, and get careless." 
 

"What do you mean, Cap'n?" said Chocolate Harry. Then, as he saw who 

stood next to Phule, his voice went up an octave. "Look out, Cap'n! It's the 
Renegades!" 
 

Phule's calm voice came back: "They've promised not to try anything, C.H.-I 

think they've realized they'll get more by talking to you than any other way. Will you 
let us come in and talk?" 
 

Chocolate Harry said nothing for a long moment, his face impassive but his 

mind racing. At last he said, "You vouch for 'em, Cap'n? They ain't carryin' heat?" 
 

"They're clean, Harry," said Phule. "Are you going to let us in?" 

 

"OK, Cap'n. Yo, Double-X, Cap'n comin' in, with hostiles. Keep 'em covered, 

but no shootin' unless they make the first move. Got it?" 
 

"Yeah, Sarge," said Double-X, and he went to unbar the door. 

 

Phule and the three Renegades picked their way through the obstacles 

outside the supply depot, and finally entered the door. Inside, the Renegades 
stopped and stared. Phule stepped over to the side of his supply sergeant, who 
stood with his fists balled at his sides. "Relax, Harry," he said in a low voice. "I think 
we're going to solve your problems." 
 

"I know these guys," said Chocolate Harry, his eyes fixed on the intruders. 

"Stonecutter Johnson, ain't it? And your old sidekicks, Joe the Blade and Asteroid 
Annie. Never thought I'd see your nasty faces up here." 
 

"Not a bad setup you got, Harry," the big Renegade said, nodding 

appreciatively. "Anybody starts a rumble with you boys, he better know how to take 
care of hisself" 
 

"The Legion knows its business," said Phule calmly. "You saw a sample of 

that." 
 

"You put on a pretty convincin' show," said Johnson, with a grudging nod. 

"Them cats can move. And they're only part of what you got. Make a dude stop 
and think." 
 

"Yeah," said Harry. "You do that, Stonecutter, and maybe nobody gets hurt. 

OK?" 

 

"Hey, Harry, we been thinkin'. OK?" said Johnson. "When we got word that 

you was on this station, the club took a vote. Maybe it'll surprise you to know that 
some of, the new guys didn't think it was worth comin' after you, after so many 
years. But us old-timers remembered what you done to our bikes, and payback is 
payback, no matter how long it's been." 
 

"Don't matter if there ain't but two of us left alive," growled Joe the Blade. 

His fingers twitched in the vicinity of his vibroblade sheath, but then he 
remembered it was empty. He punched his fist into his empty palm, with a curse. 
Behind him, the Synthian guard took a tighter grip on his shotgun. 
 

"What the hell is this?" said Chocolate Harry, turning to Phule. "Cap'n, you 

said they was comin' to talk!" 
 

"We're talkin', ain't we?" said the woman Renegade, with a gap-toothed grin 

that conveyed very little warmth. "Didn't say we was gonna talk nice." 
 

"Easy now, all of you," said Phule. "I don't ask you to be friends after so 

long, but I do think we can arrive at some way to solve your problems. You 
Renegades have brought a grievance against Chocolate Harry, perhaps a 
legitimate one-I don't think he denies that there was some incident in the past." 
 

"Damn straight there was a freakin' incident," growled Stonecutter Johnson. 

"Harry's a freakin' liar if he says anything else." 
 

"I'd appreciate it if you'd do without the profanity," said Phule, his voice 

suddenly cold. "Whatever the merits of your argument, that sort of language adds 
nothing to it. Now, what we're here for is to find a way to end this feud, because 
frankly it's an impediment to the Legion's operation." 
 

"It shouldn't be too hard to end the feud," said Asteroid Annie, sneering. 

"Give the three of us five minutes alone with the fat boy, and no interference. We'll 
settle it right fast." 
 

"Harry might surprise you," said Phule, calmly. "But that's not how we're 

going to solve this. The Legion looks after its own. If you attack my sergeant, you'll 
find out what it means to take on a full Legion company. And the same goes for 
any other member of my command." 
 

Stonecutter Johnson put a hand on the woman's shoulder. "That's right, 

Annie, the Cap'n told us that before, and I believe him. It's the same way we'd be if 
somebody came after one of our own-or at least, that's how it was in the good old 
days, before all the snot-nose kids came into the club and let all the biker traditions 
go to hell." 
 

"A-men, Stony. Things ain't like they used to be," agreed Joe the Blade. His 

face took on a wistful expression, and he added, "It must be five, six years since I 
last cut somebody's ears off." He scratched his scraggly beard, and gazed 
speculatively at the supply sergeant. 
 

"Cap'n!" Harry squawked. "You gonna let 'em threaten me like that?" 

 

"Kick ass!" came Louie's translated voice, and the little Synthian brandished 

his shotgun. "Blow them away!" 
 

"Now who's makin' threats?" snarled Stonecutter. "Cap'n, I didn't think you 

was lurin' us into a ambush, but if that's how you're playin' it, I'm ready to snaggle." 

He struck a defensive martial arts pose, and his cohorts followed suit. 
 

"Everyone calm down," barked Phule. "Louie, put that weapon away. These 

people came here unarmed, in good faith, and that's how we're going to play it. 
Now, Chocolate Harry, if I understand the situation, these people accuse you of 
tampering with their hovercycles." 
 

"Well..." Harry began. 

 

"Tamperin' ain't the word for it," shouted Asteroid Annie. "He reversed the 

wires on the hover circuit, so they flipped over when we went to ride 'em." 
 

"And he poured Insta-Stick glue on the seats, so we couldn't get off without 

taking off our jeans," said Joe the Blade, shaking his fist. 
 

"And he put helium in the reaction tanks and burned out the mass 

converters," said Stonecutter Johnson. "Any man that'd do that to somebody else's 
hawg...well, he ain't fit to ride, Cap'n. He ain't...fit...to ride." 
 

"Is this true, Harry?" Phule turned to his supply sergeant. 

 

"Well, Cap'n, it was like this..." Harry began again. 

 

"The explanations can wait, Harry. There's only one thing I need to know 

right now: Is what they're saying true?" 
 

Chocolate Harry pulled himself up to his full height and saluted. "Yes, sir!" 

he barked. 
 

"That's all I wanted to know," said Phule. "At ease, Sergeant. I told you the 

Legion protects its own, and I meant it. But these people are entitled to some 
recompense for what you did to them, and I mean to see that they get it. It's the 
only way to end this standoff, and to get back to our real business." 
 

"What you gonna do, then?" asked Chocolate Harry, his gaze shifting warily 

between Phule and the Renegades. 
 

"Yeah, man, what you gonna do to him?" said Stonecutter Johnson. He and 

his fellow Renegades cast suspicious looks toward the Legionnaires. 
 

"Nothing," said Phule. Then, as the others' mouths opened in protest, he 

held up a hand. "Nothing to ham, that is. We're going to follow an old maxim: `Let 
the punishment fit the crime.' Sergeant, where is your hovercycle?" 
 

"Cap'n!" Harry dropped to his knees like a felled ox. "Cap'n, let 'em cut my 

ears off! Let 'em tattoo me paisley from head to toe with a dull needle! Let 'em 
throw me out the airlock, but Cap'n, please don't let 'em have my hawg!" 
 

"Cuttin' them ears off would be fun," said Joe the Blade, grinning evilly. 

Asteroid Annie's eyes lit up. 
 

"Yeah, go ahead, cut 'em off," bawled Harry. "Cut 'em both off, and shave 

me with a ripsaw, and then boil me in Chinese mustard. But don't mess with my 
hawg!" 
 

"Where's the hovercycle?" repeated Phule. "No more delays, Harry. I'll have 

the cycle or I'll have your stripes." 
 

"Sure, bust me back to buck private, Cap'n," said Harry, still on his knees. 

"Bust me all the way back, and throw me in the stockade, and dump the key in a 
black hole, and feed me on sawdust and battery acid. I won't complain, no sir, not 
one word, long as you don't let 'em have my hawg." 

 

"Hey, man," said Stonecutter Johnson, stepping up to Phule. "We don't care 

what you do with his fat ass. It was our bikes he screwed with. Give us the hawg 
and we don't care what else happens to him." 
 

"Is that so?" said Phule. "Will you stick by that? If I give you the hovercycle, 

will you drop your grudge against Harry?" 
 

"Let us have the hawg, to do whatever we want with it," said Stonecutter, 

leering. "After that, it's over. Stonecutter Johnson says so, and what Stonecutter 
says, no Renegade's gonna go against it. That right, dudes?." 
 

"Nothin' but right," said Asteroid Annie, grinning. Joe the Blade nodded his 

assent, as well. 
 

"Very well, then," said Phule. "Harry-the bike." 

 

Sobbing incoherently, the supply sergeant pointed to a door in back of the 

supply office. Phule strode over and opened it, to reveal a shining hovercycle-a 
machine gorgeous enough to make any rider drool. The Renegades let out a 
collective gasp at the sight. "It's yours," said Phule. "Take it and go-and I'll hold you 
to your word. The Space Legion will hold you to your word." 
 

"No need for that," said Stonecutter Johnson. "We got more than we ever 

expected. Chocolate Harry, the feud is off. You don't got nothing ever to fear from 
us again." 
 

"Thanks a million," said the supply sergeant bitterly. "I'd rather you'd cut my 

ears off. Don't stand there and rub it in-take the hawg and go." 
 

"You ain't gotta ask me twice," said Johnson. He gestured to his cohorts, 

and the three Renegades walked the cycle out of the supply depot, grinning 
broadly. The door closed behind them. 
 

There was a moment of silence, as they all stared at the door. Then Harry 

said in a near-whisper, "Great goda'mighty, Cap'n-I think it worked!" 
 

"Of course it worked," said Phule. "As far as they're concerned, they've got 

their revenge. And they've got what they think is the single thing you valued most in 
life. Great acting job, by the way." 
 

"Thanks, Cap'n. Once you called me up and told me what was comin' down, 

I saw it was the only way to play it. And I really did have a qualm or two seein' 'em 
take away my good of hawg. Even if I couldn't really use it here, that there cycle 
was my oldest friend. Had a lot of memories connected with it." 
 

Phule clapped him on the back. "Well, I told you I'd replace it, and you know 

I'll stand by that. You pick the model, and it's yours-soon as those Renegades go 
back home." 
 

"Sounds good, Cap'n," said Harry, smiling. Then his face turned wistful, and 

he said, "Maybe there ain't no real hurry, though. There wasn't a whole lot of 
chance to ride it here, and that ain't good for a hawg. We're gonna get planetside 
again before long, where I can really crank it up and run-I guess I can wait till then 
to get a new hawg." 
 

"That makes sense," said Phule. "I'm sorry to see you lose that old one, 

though. Do you really think they'll destroy it?" 
 

"They ain't that crazy," said C.H. "More likely, they'll take it back home as a 

trophy-maybe they'll do somethin' to mark it, but no real rider would ever really hurt 
that bike. I bet they keep it in good shape, break it out and ride it every now and 
then, to show off how they got their revenge on me." 
 

"And do' you think they did?" asked Phule. 

 

Harry thought for a moment. "Yeah, I guess they did-at least by their lights. 

And I got somethin' I wanted, too-somethin' I never thought I'd see again." 
 

"What's that?" said Double-X, who'd started taking boards off the windows. 

 

Harry's smile was beatific. "Peace of mind, dude, peace of mind. Ain't 

nothin' in the galaxy to match it." 
 
From his seat at the head of the table, Phule looked around the conference room. 
For once, he was addressing a group of civilians: the managers and department 
heads of the Fat Chance Hotel and Casino. He reminded himself that he couldn't 
take their obedience for granted, as he would with his Legion subordinates. This 
time, he'd actually have to convince them he was right. 
 

On the other hand, as majority owner of the Fat Chance, he carried 

considerable authority here. That had its downside, actually-it could mean that a 
major loophole in his plans might go undetected because nobody had the nerve to 
call the boss on it. Well, he'd had that trouble with his Legion command at first, too. 
The people he was leaving here were good enough that any miscalculations he 
made should be spotted and corrected before they got out of hand. 
 

"Everyone's here, so let's begin," he said. The murmur died down. "You've 

all heard the news by now, that my Legion company has been transferred to 
another assignment. That means that we will no longer be available to guard the 
casino." 
 

"I've heard it, and I think it's a disaster, plain and simple," said Gunther 

Rafael, the former owner of the Fat Chance. Phule had kept him on as a 
figurehead manager, and planned on putting him in charge of day-to-day 
operations once the company was gone. "Your people have been the only thing 
keeping the mobsters from walking into the casino and taking it over at gunpoint. 
Quite frankly, I expect them to try exactly that, the minute your ship leaves the 
station." 
 

"The mobsters have had their wings clipped," said Phule, looking at Rafael. 

He hoped he hadn't overestimated the former owner. "I don't think you'll find them 
anywhere near as bold as that. We won't be leaving you without security, you 
know." 
 

"You might as well," said Rafael. "Everybody knows it's the Legion that's 

protecting this place. That's kept us safe. When you go, it'll be like leaving babies 
to guard a bank vault." 
 

"No it won't," said Phule. "As many of you know, most of the `legionnaires' in 

the casino are actually uniformed actors. The real Legion guards are out of 
uniform, undercover. So if a few uniformed personnel leave, it can be explained as 
normal turnover. As far as the public sees, the Legion will still be here. I'll be away, 
but that shouldn't affect security." 

 

"It certainly shouldn't," said Doc. He'd been training the actors 

impersonating legionnaires for the last few months. He was in Legion uniform, with 
a set of sergeant's stripes-a "promotion" he'd been granted in anticipation of 
Moustache's leaving with the real Legion. Doc looked every bit the part, standing 
straight as an arrow at the foot of the table. 
 

"The place was a target before," said Doc, "because the mob thought the 

new owners would be pushovers. The mob's been pretty quiet since they found out 
the Legion means business. And after the way the company tore up that obstacle 
course the other day, I'd guess that just having a few Legion uniforms visible will 
keep the hoodlums out from underfoot. I doubt we'll have to deal with anything 
much worse than the occasional rowdy drunk after word of that gets out." 
 

"And we don't need a Legion company to handle that kind of problem," said 

Lex, who'd taken over managing the casino's entertainment program. "We can take 
care of that by giving some of our stagehands overtime as bouncers to back up 
Doc's team." 
 

"You can go a long way in this business by putting up the right front," agreed 

Tullie Bascom. Phule had lured Tullie out of retirement to run the Fat Chance's 
gambling operations. "The Legion's rep is all the security we need." 
 

"As far as the other operations, I'm satisfied they're in good hands," said 

Phule. "The entertainment is the best on the station, thanks to Lex..." 
 

Lex gave his best professional smile. "Well, I have to give a lot of credit to 

Dee Dee Watkins," he said. "She may have the biggest case of artist's 
temperament I've seen since I first stepped on a holostage..." 
 

"And that's longer ago than even I want to think about," said Doc in a stage 

whisper. 
 

"...but she has the goods to back it up, too," said Lex, grinning wryly as 

everyone laughed. "And with her signed to a long-term contract, we're set for the 
foreseeable future." 
 

"There's one more element we'll be putting in place shortly after I leave," 

said Phule. "Just so my prolonged absence doesn't start the mob thinking, we're 
going to implement a plan I've kept absolutely under wraps until now. I urge you all 
not to say a word about this outside this room-because it's the heart of the plan. 
Beeker?" 
 

"Yes, sir," said the butler, who'd sat quietly in a chair behind his employer. 

He opened a door and in walked...Phule. "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen," 
the new arrival said in a voice indistinguishable from the original. 
 

"What the devil, have you cloned yourself?" said Tullie Bascomb over the 

babble of voices. 
 

"Not quite," said Phule. "This is a custom model from Andromatic, set up to 

our specifications. It has a very limited set of functions, but they should be 
sufficient for the purpose. Most of the time, it'll sit behind a desk, looking busy. But 
it can also walk around the casino, even sit down for a drink. It can carry on a 
conversation, as long as it doesn't have to be too profound-and it's programmed to 
break it off the minute somebody strays beyond general topics." 

 

"Good lord, Captain, you don't intend to leave this android to run the casino 

in your absence?" Rafael said. 
 

"Oh, it won't be running anything," said Phule. "You and your staff will be 

doing that. All it has to do is show up often enough to convince people that I'm still 
on the job. If somebody really needs to talk to me-which shouldn't happen all that 
often-well, that's what communicators are for." 
 

"But, Captain, you have a habit of getting yourself in the news," Lex pointed 

out. "Your company is bound to attract attention in its new assignment, and then 
your picture will be on screens all over the galaxy-showing you're obviously several 
light-years away from here." 
 

"Nobody believes what they see on the news," said Phule. "They've seen 

too many stories where they used stock footage of some politician-usually, it 
doesn't matter a bit. Just tell people I'm back and forth all the time, taking care of 
details on both ends. Andromatic tells me this basic model is very popular with 
political leaders. It should work for us." 
 

"So, instead of a Phule running the place, we'll have a dummy," said Doc, 

grinning broadly. 
 

"I can see you've got everything set up," said Rafael, after the laughter had 

died down. "Well, then, I guess the only thing to do is to iron out the details." 
 

"I hope so," said Phule. "And the sooner the better. Now, you'll be getting 

back the block of rooms the troops have been using. That's going to be good for 
the bottom line, of course, but there'll be some reconversion needed..." 
 

The meeting got down to business, with the Andromatic Phule standing 

behind the original, occasionally nodding as if in agreement with some point being 
made. After a while, nobody paid it much attention-which was exactly what Phule 
had hoped for. 
 
 
 10 
Journal #341 
 

Once a timetable had been set for the company's departure from Lorelei, the 

actual preparations went ahead smoothly. The main complication was keeping the 
withdrawal a secret from the public particularly from the local criminal elements that 
might try to seize the opportunity to press their own interest in the lucrative casino. 
 

I myself thought the elaborate efforts to deceive the mob leaders, especially 

Maxine Pruett, were perhaps more complex than necessary. That was before I 
found an incentive to take a personal role in the subterfuge... 
 
Lieutenant Rembrandt checked her communicator. Its readout showed Galactic 
Standard Time as 21:29-half an hour until the shuttle carrying the last of Phule's 
legionnaires was scheduled to leave. So far, everything had gone as well as 
anyone could have expected-she was almost tempted to describe it as having 
been done with military precision, except she knew the military far too well. The 
company's heavy equipment was already in transit, and would be waiting in orbit 

when they arrived at Landoor. And almost all the Legion personnel were already on 
the transport ship. 
 

It was the "almost" that had her worried. 

 

She had a very good idea which members of the company would show up at 

the last minute. The captain was one of them-no surprise there at all. He was still 
at the casino, settling the last details of the withdrawal. Nor was she particularly 
disturbed to see that the captain's butler had not checked in. As a civilian, Beeker 
was of course not subject to Legion discipline or rules. Most likely, the butler was 
with his employer-or on an errand for him. Still, he was normally punctuality itself; it 
would be a real surprise if he missed the shuttle. 
 

On the other hand, the absence of Sushi and Do-Wop was some cause for 

concern, predictable though it was. Whenever there was trouble, one or the other 
was likely to be in it up to his ears. This time it looked as if both were involved. 
They'd never missed a ship, to her knowledge-not yet, at least. But they were an 
excellent bet to come racing up at the last possible second, with someone or 
another in hot pursuit. She hoped she wouldn't have to slam the shuttle door in a 
security officer's face. She'd spent so much time building a positive image for the 
company, it'd be a shame to leave the station on that sort of note. 
 

But with half an hour to go, she might as well spend the time doing 

something other than worrying. She pulled out the art history book she'd been 
reading. She'd never had much interest in the old twentieth-century "moderns"-it 
seemed curious to call them that, so long after they were all dead and gone-but the 
author was making a good case that Picasso was, after all, a very talented 
draughtsman. She turned to where she'd left off and began reading... 
 
Maxine Pruett didn't usually answer the communicator herself. In fact, it was fairly 
unusual that she even heard its summons. People didn't call her-she called them. If 
they needed to get in touch, there was an office number, with a secretary during 
the day and an answering service at night. Only very close personal friends (and 
there weren't many of them, nowadays) ever called her at home. And when they 
did, Laverna answered it. 
 

So it took her some time to notice the persistent buzz. She had the sound 

on the holovision turned up loud, as always, and the comm unit was in another of 
the suite's eight rooms. Maxie didn't have a nagging fear of missing an important 
call. That was for other people to worry about. She was perfectly capable of letting 
the communicator buzz until she felt like picking it up, or turning off the buzzer if 
she wasn't in the mood. It wasn't her that was going to be in trouble if an important 
message didn't get through... 
 

But the damned thing had been buzzing for at least five minutes, and 

Laverna still hadn't answered. Where the hell was Laverna? Finally, Maxine 
stomped out to her office-really Laverna's office, since Laverna was the one who 
used it ninety-five percent of the time-and picked up the handset-a basic, voice-
only unit. Nobody in her business wanted a videophone in her private home. 
"Who's there?" she growled. 

 

"Ah, Mrs. Pruett, I was beginning to wonder if you were there," said a 

familiar voice. 
 

"Captain Jester," she said, although she knew perfectly well his real name 

was Phule. Now this was a surprise. "What can I do for you, Captain?" she added. 
She wasn't inclined to do anything for him, but it was good policy to be minimally 
polite to somebody who had an armed Legion company on call. 
 

"You can tell me where my butler is," snarled the captain. "Better yet, you 

can send him back-all in one piece, if you don't mind." 
 

"Your butler?" Maxine's brow furrowed. "I don't know anything about your 

butler." 
 

"Don't play games with me, Mrs. Pruett," said the captain. "Beeker was near 

your headquarters when he disappeared, and I have reason to believe he had 
gone there to see one of your subordinates. Now, are you going to send him back 
or not?" 
 

"I don't know what you're talking abou...Wait a minute," said Maxine, 

suddenly making a mental connection. 
 

"Which of my subordinates was he coming to see?" 

 

"I don't know her full name," said Phule stiffly. "Livorno, Laverne-something 

like that." 
 

Maxine's teeth clenched. "Laverna? Damn! Captain, can I call you right 

back? I need to check on something." 
 

"I'll be waiting," said Phule, and gave her the comm code. "Don't take too 

long, though-I can promise you, you don't want me to send my people over to find 
out what's causing the delay." 
 

"I don't need your promises to know that," Maxine snapped at the captain. 

"Cool your jets-I'll get right back to you." She slammed down the receiver and went 
looking for her assistant. 
 

It didn't take long to determine that Laverna wasn't anywhere in the suite. A 

quick phone call established that she wasn't in the bar downstairs-her usual 
watering hole. The last person who'd seen her was the guard at the door. That had 
been in midafternoon-as she was leaving the building with a conservatively 
dressed middle-aged man. The butler! 
 

"That bitch!" Maxine slammed down the phone. Then she began to figure 

out what she was going to tell the captain. 
 
"You sure we got time for this?" said Do-Wop. 
 

"All the time in the world," said Sushi, bending over an open panel behind 

which could be seen complex circuitry. "Quiet, now, I need to concentrate. And 
make sure nobody's watching." 
 

"Yeah, right," said Do-Wop. He scratched himself and pretended to goof off, 

gazing back down the little alley next to the casino offices. Night never fell on 
Lorelei, but it was early evening by Galactic Standard Time, which was the system 
observed on the space station. There were a few people on the streets-those 
finishing an early dinner, or casino workers coming off shift-but nobody seemed to 

pay much attention to a couple of men in maintenance uniforms crouching by an 
open panel with tools spread around. Just act like we belong there, Sushi had told 
him, and it was apparently working. 
 

"Nobody payin' attention," he reported. He peered back to see how Sushi 

was doing. The job involved removing a particular chip and replacing it with a 
slightly more complex one designed to fit in the same slot. That sounded easy, but 
sometimes the installation didn't resemble the pictures in the manuals. An easy job 
could become impossible if you only had limited time. There was a wire from some 
previous repair that was going to have to be disconnected, moved aside, and 
reconnected when the job was done. A few minutes longer. Well, that's why they 
always told you to allow more time than you thought you needed to pull off a job. 
 

And now there was somebody looking at them. "Soosh!" he hissed, and 

tried to act as if he wasn't nervous. "Casino guard." 
 

"Act calm," said Sushi, snapping the new chip into place, and pocketing the 

old one. "Now all I gotta do is reconnect the repair wire." 
 

"So hurry up and do it. He's comin'!" 

 

"Oh, in that case..." Sushi took his soldering laser and quickly played it over 

the base of the chip they'd removed. He stood up and said loudly, "Look at this 
piece of crap." 
 

"What the hell?" said Do-Wop, and then the security guard was looking over 

his shoulder. 
 

"They had the wrong value in. No wonder the bastard burned out so soon. 

Some guy was too lazy to go back to the shop for the right one." Sushi took up the 
obligatory repairman's critique of his predecessor's shoddy work. 
 

"You guys workin' late," said the guard. 

 

"Yeah, Liverakos told us finish up this last job," said Sushi. Of course he'd 

found out the casino maintenance chief's name. "They got a new kid on next shift, 
and he's late already." 
 

"Yeah, I seen him around," said the guard. There were always new kids 

around. "Guess he won't be here long." 
 

"Unless he's related to somebody," griped Do-Wop. 

 

He and the guard went on about the ills of nepotism and favoritism on the 

job for a couple of minutes while Sushi quietly knelt down and finished 
reconnecting the wire. 
 

"OK, we can close her up," he said. "And then I can find out if my wife's 

gonna kill me for getting home late." 
 

"Lucky guy, you got a wife," said Do-Wop. 

 

"You call that lucky?" said Sushi, and the guard laughed. They wrestled the 

panel back in place while the guard kibitzed, and Do-Wop tightened the fasteners. 
Sushi started packing the tools. 
 

"OK, see you boys around," said the guard, wandering back down the 

alleyway. 
 

"See you," said Sushi. It probably wouldn't be too soon, though. Unless 

something suddenly went very wrong, they'd be in deep space less than an hour 

from now. They finished packing up their tools, cleaned up the small amount of 
debris the "repair" had generated, and walked casually out of the alley. 
 

Across the street, the security guard was standing, looking completely 

uninterested in them. They walked away quickly. 
 
Maxine was still trying to decide on her story when the communicator buzzed 
again. She strode over and picked it up. "Yeah?" 
 

It was the guard downstairs. "Boss, that Legion captain's here, with a bunch 

of soldiers, and they're loaded for bear. The customers are buggin'. How you want 
me to play it?" 
 

Maxine's reply was instantaneous. "Stall 'em-and keep your own guns out of 

sight. I'll be straight down." She disconnected, and headed for the door. Halfway 
there, she stopped and checked her gun; it was ready and loaded. For a moment, 
she considered leaving it behind-it would be next to useless against the 
legionnaires' weaponry, and more likely to get her into trouble than to get her out of 
it-but long years of habit overrode the prudent impulse. She returned it to its 
concealed holster and stomped out the door. 
 

Down in the lobby, Phule was there with half a dozen legionnaires. From 

behind the nearby row of quantum slot machines, tourists stared at Phule and his 
men (although they kept pumping in coins). A few nervous gamblers waited at the 
window, cashing their chips while they still had the chance. And several bulky 
gentlemen-plainclothes casino security-occupied seats in the lobby area, 
studiously ignoring the armed invasion. 
 

Phule turned when he saw her and said, "About time, Mrs. Pruett. I have a 

confirmed report that my butler was in this building. Where are you keeping him?" 
 

"Keeping him? Are you crazy?" Maxine said, taken aback. "What the hell do 

I want your butler for?" 
 

"I don't know, but I want him back," said Phule. "And I'm not going to wait 

very long." 
 

"Look, I don't know where he is and I don't care. Feel free to search the 

place," said Maxine. She was confident that anything she didn't want him to see 
was well hidden; the place had been built on the assumption that search parties 
might occasionally come through. A few had, over the years, though none had 
penetrated beyond the nominally secret areas where teams of casino employees 
conducted surveillance and security operations, all perfectly legal and innocuous. 
Maxine's real secrets were much better hidden. 
 

"You don't care?" said Phule. "Not even if he's run off with your assistant?" 

 

Maxine stared him down. "What if he has? She's of legal age, after all." 

 

"If she knows half as much about your business as he knows about mine, 

we're both in trouble," the captain hissed. Then he looked around and said, "Is 
there someplace we can talk? Someplace secure? There are too many people 
here for my nerves." 
 

"Too many for my nerves, too," she said, seizing the moment. "Most of 'em 

are your troops, if you want to know the truth. Get 'em the hell out of here, so my 

customers can go back to playing instead of gawking at all that hardware, and I'm 
sure we can find a place to talk." 
 

"We can arrange that," said Phule. He turned to his troops. "I'll be talking to 

Mrs. Pruett. You take up positions outside-with your eyes open. I'll be half an hour-
if I need more time, I'll call you." He tapped his wrist communicator. "If you don't 
hear from me by then, you call me. If I don't answer, you know what to do. 
Understood? Do whatever you need to do." 
 

"Yes, sir!" said the squad leader, a huge man with sergeant's stripes. He 

signalled the troops and they began to file out the door. 
 

Maxine nodded. "This way," she said, and Phule followed her to her office. 

He took the chair she offered, and they sat facing each other across a large desk. 
"Now," said Maxine, "what makes you think I know anything about your butler?" 
 

"You as much as said so," said Phule. "'She's of legal age'-you know they're 

together, or you wouldn't have been talking that way. We'll both save time if we 
cooperate on this. I want my butler back, you want your assistant...maybe for 
different reasons, but we both want the same thing. We both gain by working 
together on this." 
 

Maxine didn't blink. "Working together how?" 

 

"Ah, I knew you'd get down to business when you saw the advantages," said 

Phule. "Here's the way I see it. We can't equal your intelligence sources on-station-
we aren't bad, mind you, just not your equal. Yet. We do pick up items you 
wouldn't, and as far as our off-station sources-well, you're not in that league." 
 

"You'd be surprised," said the mob boss. "But let's say it's so-you're saying 

we share whatever tips we get? What's to stop somebody from keeping secrets?" 
 

"Really, Mrs. Pruett," said Phule. "We aren't going to pass along sensitive 

information, and neither are you. But we have to trust each other to pass along 
anything relevant to our mutual business. Just as we have to trust whoever finds 
the fugitives to return them in good condition-my butler is of no use to me dead." 
 

"No accidentally shot resisting arrest, in other words," said Maxine. "Well, I 

hate to tie my people's hands that way. It's going to make things more expensive." 
 

"I don't know about your assistant, but I can assure you that losing my butler 

will make things extremely expensive for me," said Phule. "There won't be any 
accidents, will there?" 
 

"No accidents," said Maxine. "I don't see how I've got anything to lose 

passing along a tip that might help me as much as it does you, if you'll do the same 
for us. And we'll pass along your butler if we catch him. My guarantee on it. 
 

"And we'll send your assistant back," said Phule. "Here's what we know: My 

butler didn't come back from a visit to this hotel, for a lunch date. We searched his 
room a while ago; there wasn't much missing, just everything he'd take if he 
weren't planning to come back. And he took a few pieces of, uh, company property 
that I had issued to him for use in his work. That's when I called you." 
 

"Right, one of our guys saw him leaving here," said Maxine, deciding she 

could confirm Phule's deduction. "Right about lunchtime, in fact-with my assistant. 
Ten-to-one those two have gone freelance. They're old enough to know better." 

 

"That's for sure," said Phule. "I thought Beeker was..." His communicator 

buzzed. "Jester here," he answered. He put it to his ear for privacy, but Maxine 
could hear the buzz of an excited voice-a woman's voice from the pitch. "When?...I 
see. They're certain?...Well, we'd never get the authority to run them down in 
space, but we can grab them at the other end. Who do we know there? OK, stay in 
touch. Jester out." 
 

"They've left the station," said Maxine. 

 

"Right. Two-nineteen shuttle to the Patriot liner, which went translight three 

hours ago. Next stop is Trannae. We'll have somebody looking for them when they 
land. Do you have anybody there?" 
 

"Maybe," said Maxine, trying to remember which family was in charge at 

Trannae. It was about ninety days' journey to Trannae, if she remembered 
correctly-which translated to what? Three weeks shiptime, she thought. Laverna 
would know... 
 

Phule broke into her thoughts. "I'll get the arrival info sent to you as soon as 

I get back to my office, but it looks as if we've got them," he said. "They aren't 
going to get off a liner in hyperspace." 
 

"Good," she said. "I think we've got a deal-and now, would you and your 

soldiers get off my property? You're frightening the marks." 
 
21:48-a little more than ten minutes left before departure time. If the captain hadn't 
appeared by then, Lieutenant Rembrandt was going to have to delay the shuttle. 
Her orders said to leave precisely on schedule, no matter what. But she also had 
her own judgment, and she meant to use it. Abandoning the captain wasn't an 
option. 
 

A quiet tone notified Rembrandt that someone had entered the corridor she 

was guarding. She put down her book and stood up to see who was coming. She 
didn't expect trouble, but she pulled her weapon out of its holster just in case. If 
trouble did come calling, she was armed with the Phule-proof adaptation of Qual's 
stun ray. 
 

The broad corridor was well-lit, and so she easily made out the two figures 

approaching her. They wore regulation Legion black, with unit patches for the 
Omega Mob. But despite the familiar uniforms, she didn't recognize the faces. One, 
a lean, black woman, was a complete stranger to her. The other, a heavy-built 
man, had sergeant's stripes on his sleeve and an ill-fitting full beard...there was 
something about him, but... 
 

The eyes gave him away. "Beeker!" she whispered, recognizing him through 

the disguise. "What's with the chin shrubbery? And who's your friend?" 
 

"The new recruit, Lieutenant," said the butler, his voice a low-pitched growl. 

"Permission to board?" 
 

"Permission granted, Sergeant," she said, doing her best not to let her 

amusement show. Beeker was the last person she'd ever expected to see in 
uniform. As for his companion, she was obviously a good bit past the usual age for 
recruits-even in the Legion, notoriously lax in its entrance requirements. The 

"sergeant" and "recruit" saluted-superfluous, since she herself was in mufti-and 
went through the shuttle entryway. 
 

Rembrandt peered along the corridor, but there was no one else. She 

checked her watch. She had time to finish a chapter, so she sat back down with 
her book. 
 

She'd read half a page when the alarm sounded again. She looked up to 

see a single figure approaching: the captain. She put down her book and rose to 
her feet. "Good to see you, sir," she said. "How'd it go?" 
 

"Smooth as butter, I think," said Phule. "Lex's actors were very convincing 

as legionnaires, and Maxine bought my line of goods about Beeker and Laverna 
running off. Did they get here all right?" 
 

"Yes, they were right ahead of you. Very well-disguised, too. I didn't 

recognize Beeker right away, and if I didn't, his own mother couldn't." 
 

"Good. Then if everyone's here, let's go on board and get started. No need 

to wait to the last minute." 
 

"I'm afraid there is, Captain," said Rembrandt. "Sushi and Do-Wop haven't 

reported in." 
 

"That pair!" said Phule. "I should have known they'd find some kind of 

trouble to get into at the last minute." 
 

"They aren't out on business?" said Rembrandt, frowning. "What if they miss 

the ship-out?" 
 

Phule shook his head disapprovingly. "They might be able to get on 

something fast enough to catch up with us at the transfer station at Bellevue, but 
it'll cost them a bundle." 
 

"And even then they might get caught in a hyperspace loop and get to the 

transfer point a year late-or early," said Rembrandt. "Serve them right to pay a 
years' room and board while they wait for us to show up." 
 

Phule chuckled. "Well, if they do miss the shuttle, whatever it costs to get 

them back to the company is coming out of their pockets. Sushi's dangerously 
bright, but I don't think he's figured out all the ramifications of `time is money' yet." 
 

"This may teach him," said Rembrandt, laughing. Then her face turned 

serious. "What if they're in real trouble?" 
 

"Anything those two can't talk their way out of isn't going to get fixed in a few 

minutes. I can spare a little more than that, but not much. We'll lift at..."-he looked 
at his watch-"22:15, whether they're aboard or not. I'm going to go give the orders. 
And Rembrandt...?" 
 "Sir?" 
 

Phule looked her in the eye. "Don't you get caught behind, waiting till the 

last second for them to show up." 
 

"I won't, sir," she said, and turned back to her seat by the door. She might 

as well finish reading that chapter. 
 
"Are you being followed?" said Sushi. He spoke without turning his head, and he'd 
turned up the volume so the microphone would pick up normal-volume speech at 

full arm's length. No sense in letting any watchers realize he was using the 
communicator. He'd have to abandon that trick if he got close enough for anyone to 
overhear him speaking, but that wasn't a problem yet. 
 

"Can't tell," came Do-Wop's muffled voice through the speaker. "People 

around-can't talk much." 
 

"OK, hurry-and keep your eyes open," said Sushi. Several blocks back, he 

and his partner had thought they spotted someone tailing them. It could have been 
a coincidence, or the security guard back at the casino might have gotten 
suspicious. They split up-as two legitimate workers would have done. Neither 
Sushi nor Do-Wop was a novice at eluding pursuit. And if one of them were 
caught-well, that was better than both. 
 

At the next street corner was an open convenience store. A pair of shabbily 

dressed men stood on the corner outside the store. Casino strandees, thought 
Sushi-Lorelei had a "proof of work" requirement for residence, which meant that 
fired casino workers either got another job right away, or were shipped out. 
Strandees were more common. Usually they were luckless gamblers who'd hocked 
the ticket home to finance one more try to beat the house. They could survive for a 
while by scrounging and hitting an occasional small payoff. Sooner or later security 
caught up to them, and they were on their way anyhow-with a heavy lien against 
their credit to cover their passage and the fines for whatever offenses Lorelei 
security decided to charge them with. They weren't normally dangerous, but there 
was always a chance these two were different. Sushi couldn't spare the time to find 
out. He crossed the street. Almost at once he became aware that the two were 
looking at him. 
 

Act like it's all normal, he thought to himself. Keep alert plan what you'll do if 

they come after you. The store was on the corner of a broad secondary street. A 
couple of blocks to his left, a hard right, and he'd be at the shuttle departure bay. 
 

He tried to hurry his footsteps without seeming to be in a hurry. The two 

men were still looking at him... 
 

"Hey, you!" one of them barked. 

 

Sushi broke into a run. There was an incoherent shout behind him, then 

pursuing footsteps. He glanced back to see how the pursuit was coming, then 
expertly flung his repairman's toolbox into the nearest pursuer's legs. The man 
went down in a tumble of knees and elbows, and his partner stumbled trying to 
avoid him. That gave Sushi a few extra steps lead, and he intended to make use of 
every centimeter of it. 
 

Sushi put a little bob-and-weave into his run. He didn't know who he was 

running from, but the likely candidates wouldn't blink at shooting him in the back. 
Behind him, the pursuers were on their feet again and coming after him. Well, that 
ended any chance they were ordinary thieves. They could've hocked the 
repairman's tools for more money than a worker was likely to be carrying. 
 

Another glance back showed him he was gaining on his pursuers. Ahead, 

there were only a couple of people on the street between him and the corner. 
Maybe they were tourists. So far neither had reacted to him. He decided to give 

both as wide a berth as possible. 
 

The first man he passed flattened himself against the building to one side, 

clearly unwilling to get involved. Sushi swung wide of him anyhow, in case he was 
shamming. But the other man stood stock-still, not blocking the way, but not getting 
out of the way, either. Sushi had a split second to decide which way to dodge when 
he heard a crash behind him and voices raised in anger. The man ahead of him fell 
back, astonished. When Sushi saw that, he actually turned and looked back-just in 
time to see both his pursuers down on the street. Do-Wop was picking himself up 
and sprinting after Sushi. 
 

Sushi dodged past the astonished man, and a moment later he and Do-Wop 

turned, side by side, into the alleyway that led to the shuttle entrance. Ahead of 
them, Lieutenant Rembrandt was rising to her feet, a book in her hand. They were 
home free. It was a moment's work to duck through the hatchway, dog it shut 
behind them, and take their seats. Phule gave Do-Wop and Sushi a stare, but said 
nothing. Minutes later, the shuttle was leaving Lorelei. 
 
Journal #350 
 

Departure from Lorelei did not by any means end my employer's concerns 

with events on that station. In fact, several of them needed resolution even before 
our transport ship reached its first stop... 
 
Phule looked across his desk at the woman sitting next to Beeker. He wasn't quite 
sure how to handle this. It had never occurred to him that Beeker's personal life 
might thrust itself into his awareness. It was hard enough accepting that Beeker 
had a personal life. Well, no sense dithering; he was going to have to deal with it. 
 

"So, Laverna, do I understand correctly that you're considering joining the 

Space Legion?" he began. 
 

"I was told that it was the only condition under which the Legion would give 

me passage off Lorelei," said Laverna, looking at Beeker. 
 

"Well, that's not strictly true," said Phule. "The Legion routinely gives 

passage to several categories of civilians. Essential staff, immediate families of 
senior officers...Um...those don't actually apply, do they?" 
 

"You'd know that better than I do," said Laverna. "I can pay for my fare, if 

you're worried about that. I assume you can scramble the credit transaction so 
Maxine can't trace it?" 
 

"Certainly," said Phule. "But I don't think we need you to pay. As company 

commander, I have a certain discretionary budget, and of course what I spend my 
own money for isn't the Legion's business, with one or two fairly obvious 
exceptions." 
 

"If it comes to that, I can pay for Miss Laverna's passage," said Beeker. 

 

"I can pay my own way," Laverna repeated. "Let's forget about that for now, 

all right? What I need to know is, if I do decide to join the Legion-which I haven't 
done yet-what kind of choice do I have as far as my assignment?" 
 

"Quite frankly, I don't know all the regulations," said Phule. "I do know you 

have less choice than a recruiting officer would try to make you think. You can 
request anything you want, but the Legion makes assignments based on its own 
needs." 
 

"I suspected as much," said Laverna, with a thin smile. She glanced 

sideways at Beeker. "But tell me this: If I do qualify for a particular specialty, does 
the Legion guarantee to train me in it?" 
 

"Yes," said Phule. "There's no guarantee what'll happen once your training's 

done. Suppose you put in for training as a quantum mechanic and assignment to 
Altair IV. They'd give you the training-assuming you'd qualify-but you might still end 
up digging ditches halfway across the galaxy." 
 

"Understood," said Laverna. "Question two: If I do decide to join, my 

previous identity is kept secret?" 
 

"Yes again," said Phule. "That doesn't mean it can't get out. As you probably 

know, Chocolate Harry kept his gang nickname when he joined, and was a little too 
free with details of his past-which let some of his old enemies track him down. And 
of course, my own family name is an open secret. But I don't think your situation is 
comparable, especially if you take a few steps to cover your trail." 
 

"You can do all that without joining the Legion, you know," said Beeker. He 

said it in a level tone, but Phule thought he detected a note of urgency in the 
butler's voice. 
 

"I realize that," said Laverna, looking Beeker in the eye. "But what I know 

about Maxine Pruett's business is enough to make me a target-even if Maxine isn't 
in charge on Lorelei. And it's going to make anybody associated with me a target, 
including a certain butler." 
 

"I am willing to accept that risk," said Beeker. 

 

"And I'm not willing to subject you to it," said Laverna fiercely. "The only way 

either of us is safe is if we're apart. Then you can rely on your cover story: I tricked 
you into helping me escape, then robbed you and abandoned you. They'll believe 
that of me, so they'll leave you alone. And you won't know where I am, so you 
won't be able to give me away." 
 

"Perhaps I would wish to know where you are," said Beeker. This time the 

emotion in his voice was unmistakable, Phule thought, though he still kept a 
straight face. 
 

"There'll be time for that," said Laverna. "Neither of us is a child. We know 

how to take the long view. I'll finish my Legion hitch in a few years, and you'll retire 
from your job at some point in the future. And then we can see what there is to see. 
I think that is wisest." 
 

"So you are going to enlist, after all?" asked Phule. "If you'd like, we can cut 

you temporary orders attaching you to this company for your basic training, while 
your application for advanced training is being processed. When we know where 
you're going, we can send you there." 
 

"I appreciate the offer, Captain," said Laverna. "But if I am on the same 

world as you and Beeker for any length of time, someone is bound to come looking 
for me. Better if, at the next reasonable transfer point, you send me to another 

Legion base for basic training. That way, the risks for all of us will be minimized." 
 

"Very well," said Phule. "That's a sensible precaution, and I'll make the 

arrangements for it. Meanwhile, I can put in your application for advanced training, 
if you know what you'd like." 
 

"Yes, I think so," said Laverna. "I've always thought I'd be a good 

emergency paramedic. Do you think the Legion needs any of those?" 
 

"I believe so," said Phule, surprised. "I'll put you in for it. Now, unless you 

can think of anything else we need to settle, I'll get to work on this, and you two can 
have a little more time together before we change ships. Good luck, Miss Laverna." 
 

"Thank you, Captain," she said, with one of her rare smiles. "To tell the truth, 

I hope I won't need it." 
 
"I want straight answers from you two," said Phule. He glared at the two 
legionnaires in his office, trying his best to look intimidating. He wasn't quite sure it 
was working. 
 

"Straight answers about what, Captain?" said Sushi. His quizzical 

expression made him look fifteen years old. 
 

"Yeah, we ain't done nothin'," said Do-Wop, considerably less innocent-

looking. 
 

Phule sighed. He should have known he wouldn't get anything out of this 

pair without arm-twisting. "All right, I guess I'll have to spell it out," he said. "You 
two made it to the shuttle by the skin of your teeth, under hot pursuit. It's a good 
thing nobody with an arrest warrant walked up to the hatchway before we got it 
dogged, or you two might still be there." 
 

"But we weren't late, sir," said Sushi, mildly. "I don't see how it makes any 

difference whether we're on the shuttle an hour before it leaves or thirty seconds 
before, as long as we're there and buckled in when it's ready." 
 

"Normally, neither would I," said Phule. "You know I run a loose ship, and 

that's not about to change. I wouldn't have said a word about it except for the latest 
reports from the team we left on Lorelei." 
 

"Whatever it is, we didn't have nothin' to do with it," said Do-Wop. He had 

the outraged look of a Federation Senator accused of taking bribes from someone 
he hadn't thought to solicit. 
 

"I suppose I should consider it a compliment that you think we can 

manipulate events at that distance," added Sushi, "but we really can't take credit 
for everything. There are a number of operatives from various criminal 
organizations on Lorelei, you know." 
 

"Interesting that you automatically assume I'm referring to criminal 

activities," said Phule, glowering. He paced a few steps, then turned suddenly to 
face the two legionnaires. "What were you doing that made you so late? And why 
were you wearing repairmen's uniforms? What were you pretending to repair?" 
 

"Pretending?" the two legionnaires asked almost in unison. Then Do-Wop 

went on alone, "Jeez, Captain, if we was gonna repair somethin', it'd be fixed when 
we finished with it." 

 

"Fixed is probably the right word," said Phule. He looked Sushi directly in 

the eye and said, "There's been a very small but steady drain on receipts at the Fat 
Chance-a fraction of a cent from each credit card transaction-ever since shortly 
before we lifted off. Not enough for any one individual to notice, but quite a bit if 
you spread it out over the entire station for the week since we left. Now, I wonder 
where those odd fractions of a cent are going?" 
 

"Gee, Captain, that's an interesting question," said Sushi. "I guess you think 

we had something to do with it." 
 

"I'd think that somebody who knows how to gimmick a Dilithium Express 

card might be able to figure out how to do something like this, yes," said Phule. 
"You realize, of course, that you're skimming from your own profits here-you two 
being part-owners of the Fat Chance. Not to mention skimming from all your 
buddies in the company." 
 

"Hey, Captain, you still ain't proved we're the ones who did it," said Do-Wop. 

"Just because somebody knows how to do somethin', that don't mean he did it. 
Lorelei station's full of crooks, y'know." 
 

"Yes, it's been full of them practically since it opened up," said Phule. He 

turned his penetrating stare toward Do-Wop, who suddenly found something to 
look at on the floor. "But nobody figured out how to pull this stunt until you two left 
the station-disguised as repairmen, and running as if you had a pack of rippers 
after you. I'll ask you again-what were you two `fixing' back there?" 
 

Sushi and Do-Wop glanced at each other, while Phule allowed the silence to 

stretch out. It stretched further, and Phule was beginning to wonder if it was time to 
abandon the tactic when Sushi shrugged and said, "All right, Captain, if you've 
already figured it out, there's not much point in trying to hide it anymore. We were 
opening up one of the hatchways that access the station's climate control system. 
What most people don't realize is that the same central computer controls all the 
credit card transactions, as well as some other stuff we weren't interested in. But it 
shouldn't have tapped into the Fat Chance. It was just supposed to take from the 
other casinos. You know I wouldn't rob the other guys in the company." 
 

"Why not?" demanded Phule. "You can't expect me to believe that one 

without corroboration." 
 

"Well, before that, I'd planted a chip in the Fat Chance's central computer. 

That was how I cut off your card when I fooled the Yakuza. Lucky for me, he didn't 
ask me to use your card at one of the other casinos-it would've blown the whole 
caper. But that chip was also a one-way filter between the Fat Chance and the rest 
of the system. You see, I was already planning this little prank back then. I can't 
understand why it didn't work." 
 

Phule walked up to within inches of Sushi's face and snarled, "Probably 

because Beeker and I figured out how you had to have broken into my account, 
and counteracted it. We couldn't inspect the entire system, but we could insert our 
own override into the software. So when you pulled your little prank, the Fat 
Chance was back in touch with the rest of the system, and your chip stole from us 
as well as all the rest." 

 

"I told you it wouldn't work," said Do-Wop, glumly. "The captain's too smart 

for us, Soosh." 
 

"I guess he is," said Sushi. "OK, Captain, I'll tell you where the substitute 

chip is so you can undo the swindle, and we'll refund all the money it's taken from 
the Fat Chance. Will that make everything all right?" 
 

"It'll do for a start," said Phule. "Unfortunately, you're going to have to go a 

step beyond that. I want you to refund all the money it's taken from all the casinos. 
If I let you keep any profits from this, you're likely to learn the wrong lesson." 
 

"Yes, sir," said Sushi unhappily. "To tell the truth, that'll actually be easier 

than separating out the Fat Chance's share." 
 

"Good. Then I want it done as soon as possible," said Phule. "Can you do it 

from the ship or do you have to wait till we're out of hyperdrive?" 
 

"I can do it from your desk phone," said Sushi, pointing. 

 

"You'll do it as soon as we're finished talking," said Phule. "One more thing. 

You two are going to be on a shorter leash once we get to the new assignment. 
Landoor is a military operation, and we're going to run it by military rules. That 
means no more freelancing by you two. Is that clear?" 
 

"Yes, sir," said Sushi, and Do-Wop echoed his partner in an even more 

plaintive tone. Neither one looked particularly happy, but Phule didn't think he 
could demand that of them. 
 

"Good," he said, looking them both in the eye. "Now, Sushi, you're going to 

make that comm call, and then we're going to see if you two hoodlums can learn 
how to work as part of the team. For your sake-for the whole company's sake-I 
hope you can." 
 

Sushi and Do-Wop both nodded. Phule pointed to the phone, and sat down 

to watch. There might be something more he could learn from this... 
 
 
 11 
Journal #369 
 

As usual, my employer carefully read his briefing materials about the new 

world his company was going to. Landoor had been settled two hundred years ago 
as a mining colony (the planet was unusually rich in certain rare earths). The 
Moguls, as the mine owners were called, had imported convict labor to work the 
mines, with the promise of land and freedom after the laborers had served a stated 
term in the mines. The Moguls had grown enormously rich off the sweat of their 
imported convicts. They built their capital city on an unspoiled tropical island they 
called Atlantis-which became a popular vacation spot for the wealthy of that era. 
 

Nowadays, the mainland mines were largely owned by offplanet cartels, 

which found it more difficult with every passing year to derive a profit from the 
played-out beds of ore. The original owners had, for the most part, taken their 
profits and left the planet for more cosmopolitan worlds where they could enjoy 
their wealth unhindered. That left the government in the hands of the former 
bureaucrats and middle managers. They ruled a population of miners, farmers, 

factory workers, and small merchants, who did not have the luxury of pulling up 
stakes and moving to a new world at whim. 
 

Then, a few years ago, revolutionary fervor had swept the planet, and 

Federation troops were imported to stem the violence. Peace had been established 
placing the rebel faction in the saddle, with the former government as an opposition 
party within the system. (A few diehards had escaped to the mainland and set up 
as a resistance movement, but they were considered of no consequence.) 
 

While peace itself was greeted with rejoicing, its imposition by outside forces 

had left a sour taste in the mouths of many Landoorans-especially after Federation 
pilots strafed the peace conference. The Legion officer who ordered the gratuitous 
strafing was a certain Captain Scaramouche, who disappeared from the Legion 
rolls shortly before Captain Jester took command of the Omega Mob. This fact was 
not widely known on Landoor-but it was about to become so. 
 

And for some reason, that fact had been omitted from the briefing materials 

General Blitzkrieg provided to my employer. 
 
The Atlantis spaceport on Landoor was typical for a thirdrate developing world: 
weeds growing in cracks on the roadways, peeling paint on all the buildings, and all 
the other evidence that nothing very important ever happened here. But to the 
Omega Mob, it was gorgeous. As they piled out of the landing shuttle, the 
legionnaires craned their necks to look up at the first natural sky they'd seen in 
over a year. And off in the distance, if they listened carefully, was the muted roar of 
surf on a broad, sandy beach. "It's good to be back on a real planet," said 
Rembrandt, and there were no dissenting voices. 
 

A short distance away stood a formation of gray-uniformed figures: the 

Regular Army peacekeeping force that the Omega Mob was relieving. Behind them 
was a local news crew, with cameras rolling. Phule beckoned to his officers, and 
together they strode over to pay their respects. "Captain Larkin?" said Phule to the 
officer in command. 
 

"Yes, welcome to Landoor, Captain Jester," said the dark-haired young 

woman commanding the Army unit, stepping forward to take Phule's hand in a firm 
grip. "A pleasure to see you-though we wouldn't mind spending another tour here, 
ourselves." 
 

The subordinate officers on either side were introduced and shook hands, 

while Phule asked quietly, "Anything in particular I need to know about the local 
situation, Captain?" 
 

"Nothing you won't find in the briefing books we'll be handing over," said 

Larkin, grinning. "It's a pleasant world, and the locals seem glad to have us here-
the closest we've come to action was when we had to break up an Astroball victory 
celebration that got a little rowdy. Gorgeous weather, no nasty bugs or beasties, 
and even the rebels over on the mainland seem pretty harmless. You people ought 
to have an easy time of it." 
 

"Well, I hope you're right," said Phule. "I'm not one to dodge trouble, but it'd 

be good to deal with something straight-forward for once. Our last assignment had 

more than its share of hidden problems." 
 

"Captain, if you want any trouble on Landoor, you're going to have to go 

looking for it," said Larkin. "I've been here over a year and haven't seen the faintest 
sign of it." 
 

"With luck, neither will we." 

 

Larkin nodded. She pointed to a group of men in civilian garb standing in 

front of the nearest building. "Let's go introduce you to the local authorities, then. 
Not polite to keep them waiting." 
 

"Yes, by all means," said Phule. He fell in alongside the Army captain, and 

the two, followed by their subordinates, began a brisk stroll toward the waiting 
civilians. They had gone perhaps half the distance when a sharp report rang out 
from the roof of a nearby building and almost at the same instant, Phule heard 
something whiz past his head and strike the ground behind him. 
 

"Get down! Somebody's shooting!" he shouted, throwing himself flat on the 

ground. He heard several other bodies hit the tarmac at the same time, presumably 
following his advice. He couldn't tell if the shooter had hit anyone. 
 

The closest cover was a ground vehicle of some sort, maybe twenty feet 

away. Phule began a quick scuttle toward it, using his knees and elbows. He didn't 
know if the shot had been intended for him, but the shooter might not be particular 
about who he hit. In any case, he wasn't about to provide an easy target for a 
second try. 
 

He risked a peek at the scene around him. The civilians were scattering like 

chaff, but nobody seemed to be hurt. Then another shot rang out, and he started 
crawling more quickly. He sensed rather than heard someone rush past him, going 
in the direction from which the shots had been fired: Louie, on his glideboard no 
doubt, with a splatgun ready at hand. Phule hoped the Synthian was taking evasive 
action; Louie was a small, elusive target, but the shooters might get lucky. 
 

Moments later, something louder and larger zoomed over him; this time he 

did risk a look up. It was Chocolate Harry on a new hovercycle, with Spartacus 
riding the sidecar. Between the glideboard and the hovercycle, the would-be 
assassins would be lucky to escape. On the other hand, if they decided to make a 
pitched battle of it...he pushed the thought out of his mind, and quickly crawled the 
rest of the way to shelter. 
 

Captain Larkin had gotten there ahead of him, and was leaning with her 

back against the vehicle, a drawn pistol in her hand. She watched him scuttle up, 
then said, "Just my luck-right as I'm about to leave, the party finally comes to life." 
 

"You're welcome to stay awhile," said Phule. Then, when he'd caught his 

breath a little bit he added, "I take it you don't have any idea who might be doing 
the shooting?" 
 

"Not a clue," she said. "It looks as if your people came prepared, though. 

That was very quick response time." She nodded approvingly. 
 

"Let's hope it was quick enough." There hadn't been any more shots since 

the first two, but that didn't mean it was safe. Phule gazed intently back at where 
his troops had disembarked, trying to see what was happening. Most of his 

company, he saw, had taken whatever cover they could find. Brandy was peering 
over the shuttle's hood, scanning the rooflines with binoculars and talking into her 
wrist communicator-presumably directing the response to the shooting. Seeing her, 
Phule reached down and turned on his own communicator. 
 

"Jester here-what's the story, Top?" 

 

"Still trying to find out myself, Captain. C.H. and the Synthians are out 

scouting. No sign of the shooter yet. You all right?" 
 

"Not a scratch. How about the rest?" 

 

"A few scrapes and bruises when people ducked for cover, but nothing 

serious. Rev split a seam in his uniform." 
 

Phule chuckled. "Don't tell me where, I swear I don't want to know. Listen 

now, Brandy-I want you to secure the area so the civilians can get out of danger. 
Send the Gambolts to scout those rooftops, too. We can't stay pinned down here 
all day just because of one sniper." 
 

"Will do, Captain. But stay behind cover until I tell you it's safe, OK? There 

might be more than one sniper out there, and they might be gunning for us." 
 

Phule watched as a black-uniformed skirmish line moved quickly toward 

him, securing the spaceport and waiting for more shots. None came, but it was 
quite a while before they declared the area safe. And nobody found the sniper. 
 
"I'm not used to having somebody shoot at me," said Phule, pacing restlessly. He 
and Beeker had been herded to a secure room inside the spaceport terminal while 
the Legion and Army troops made certain no shooters were waiting somewhere to 
take another shot at him. Somewhere else in the building, the representatives of 
the Landoor government-including the head of State Security, Colonel Mays-
awaited them. 
 

"If you'll pardon my saying so, sir, you might have thought of that before 

joining the Space Legion. It is hardly the vocation to choose if one is seeking to 
avoid being shot at," said Beeker. His expression showed no sympathy whatsoever 
for his employer. 
 

"Well, we can't be certain they were shooting at me personally," said Phule 

in a hopeful voice. "They might have been aiming at almost anybody on the landing 
field." 
 

"I would consider it highly unlikely, sir," said Beeker. "After all, Captain 

Larkin told you there'd been no trouble at all during her tour of duty. It is difficult not 
to draw the conclusion that today's shooting incident is directly related to our 
arrival." 
 

"That doesn't make sense, Beeker. What could anyone on this world have 

against us? I've never set foot on it." 
 

"That's rather disingenuous of you, sir," said Beeker. "You can't have 

overlooked the fact that this world was formerly New Atlantis. You should certainly 
remember how the civil war here ended, when a certain young Legion officer took it 
upon himself to have the peace conference strafed. I would think you might 
remember that incident, since you were subsequently court-martialed for it, and 

assigned to your present position." 
 

Phule began pacing again. "I could hardly have forgotten that, Beeker. I 

understood all along why General Blitzkrieg had the company assigned here: It's 
the one place in the galaxy where I might have enemies." 
 

"The one place in addition to Headquarters," Beeker noted dryly. 

 

"Yes, I suppose so," said Phule. "One reason I accepted this assignment 

was as a way to make amends for that incident. Still, never having been to the 
capital, I didn't expect anyone here to recognize me-especially since I've changed 
my Legion name. Obviously, somebody's leaked that information." 
 

Beeker nodded solemnly. "I wouldn't be in the least surprised to learn that 

the general himself had revealed your previous identity as Captain Scaramouche 
to certain local factions to whom it might be of interest." 
 

"That's the way to bet-though it's probably pointless to try to prove it," said 

Phule. "More important is to find out which of those factions decided to start 
shooting the minute I landed here." 
 

"I would think that would be easy enough to answer, sir," said Beeker. "Who 

suffered the most when you strafed the peace conference?" 
 

"Other than myself, you mean?" said Phule, with an ironic grimace. "I 

suppose whatever faction lost the most in the eventual peace settlement. The 
former government, I suppose-especially the diehards who kept on fighting." 
 

"My thought exactly. From their point of view, the strafing might appear as 

insult piled upon injury." 
 

"That would be very narrow-minded of them." said Phule. "It really wasn't at 

all directed at them personally." 
 

Beeker stared at his employer for a long moment. "That may be true, sir, but 

I suspect that many people would find the distinction rather esoteric. Even 
professional soldiers are likely to take being shot at as an invasion of their personal 
space, I'd think." 
 

"Well, that really ignores the whole context," said Phule. "I was trying to 

exploit a military situation in wartime. That's hardly the same as assassinating 
someone-assuming that's what they were up to." 
 

"I am glad you perceive a difference," said Beeker, mildly. "However, it 

seems apparent that not everyone is quite ready to forgive and forget." 
 

"Well, we'll have to talk some sense into them," said Phule. "In a way, that's 

what we're here for, isn't it?" 
 

"Sir, I was under the rather distinct impression that we had come here to get 

out of trouble. I suppose it was foolish of me to believe that. I shall have to learn to 
moderate my irrepressible optimism." 
 

"I'd be just as happy if you'd learn to moderate your sarcasm," said Phule, 

"but I'd never recognize you without it. In any case, if the rebels really have taken 
my arrival as a pretext to reopen hostilities, it's going to jeopardize this company's 
peacekeeping mission. I don't intend to sit still for that." 
 

"Not at all a wise policy with someone shooting at you," agreed Beeker. 

 

"Exactly. So first we have to find the rebels and convince them I'm not their 

enemy. Any idea how we go about that?" 
 

"Given today's events, I should think the rebels may not be especially 

interested in negotiating." 
 

"Well, I'll have to do what I can to change that," said Phule. "Until then..." 

 

The door opened and Lieutenant Armstrong stuck his head in. "Captain, it 

looks as if things are finally under control. If you'll follow me, the government 
people are ready to meet you." 
 

"Good," said Phule. "Now let's hope they haven't decided to hold that 

shooting against me." 
 

"Perhaps they won't, sir," said Beeker gloomily. "Always assuming they 

weren't the ones responsible for it." But Phule and his lieutenants had already left 
the room. 
 
Phule followed Armstrong and Rembrandt down a corridor to an office complex, 
and into a large office, evidently commandeered for the purpose. The sign on the 
door read SPACEPORT MANAGER, and there were several harried-looking men 
and women in the outer office as the Legion contingent passed through. On the 
walls were framed photographs of beach scenes and sunsets, reminders that this 
island was a tropical paradise-at least, when there wasn't a war going on. 
 

Inside the inner office, they were met by a big, bearded man, smoking an 

evil-smelling cheroot and wearing a dark green uniform with an impressive number 
of service stripes on the sleeve. To either side of him were two similarly uniformed 
men, both grim-faced. The window blinds were drawn. All three watched in silence 
as Phule and his officers stepped into the room. 
 

Phule stepped up to the desk and stopped, standing at attention. "Colonel 

Mays, I am Captain Jester of the Space Legion, ordered here to supervise the 
administration of the peace treaty. Allow me to present my credentials." Lieutenant 
Armstrong stepped forward with the dossier and put it on the desk in front of the 
big man, then stepped back to a position flanking Phule. 
 

Mays neither looked at it nor touched it. Instead, he took the cheroot out of 

his mouth, looked Phule directly in the eye, and said, "You are a man who requires 
no introduction on this planet, Captain Jester-or should I call you Captain 
Scaramouche?" 
 

"I would much prefer the former, Colonel," said Phule. "The Space Legion 

has a tradition that a legionnaire leaves his past behind him when he joins-as 
symbolized by leaving his name behind him. Our former names and former ways of 
life aren't anyone's business." 
 

"A very romantic tradition, I am sure," said Colonel Mays, with a hint of a 

sneer. "I am sure it gives you legionnaires great comfort to know that you can walk 
away from what you have done before, just by taking a new name and putting on a 
black uniform." 
 

"I don't think anybody can escape the past," said Phule, wondering why he 

was bandying words with this man. "But by changing our names, we can focus on 
our present tasks without having to keep explaining how we got here. That doesn't 

mean the past doesn't come looking for us, from time to time." 
 

Colonel Mays nodded. "Perhaps the policy is a wise one, then. But in your 

case, you will find a good many people here who remember what you did. As for 
myself-and I can tell you I speak for my superiors in the government, here-there is 
no animosity to you. Quite the opposite-you are one of our heroes. Your strafing 
mission broke the old government's last resistance. We had heard very little from 
the mainland rebels until that shooting today. I think we can assume that they know 
who you are as well." 
 

"You're certain that was the rebels shooting at me?" said Phule. "My people 

responded almost immediately, but the shooters had gone, and left no clues to 
their origins. We haven't even established for sure that I was the target-though that 
seems to be the best guess." 
 

Colonel Mays took a pull on the cheroot. "Until you came here, the rebels 

did nothing but camp out in the jungle and play their self-deluding games," he said. 
"They have no popular support. When they are not half-drunk, they know that as 
well as I do. But today, when you arrived-you, the off-planet enemy who rubbed 
their faces in their defeat-somebody shows up to shoot at you. Yes, Captain, I think 
that is a very good guess." The two men with him laughed. 
 

Phule glanced at Armstrong and Rembrandt, neither of whom seemed to 

find Mays's statement amusing. "Another possibility occurs to me, Colonel," he 
said. "What if someone in your government is more worried about the rebels than 
you are? Perhaps they faked an assassination attempt, hoping to convince the 
peacekeeping team to punish the rebels. Of course this is mere speculation, but 
can you deny the possibility?" 
 

Mays scowled. "Of course I deny it," he said. "We are a peaceful 

government-in fact, the peace agreement completely disarmed our military. Now it 
is fit only for construction and police work. Your company-and the rebels over on 
the mainland-are the only significant armed bodies on the planet." 
 

"I see," said Phule. "Well, if that's the case, you'll have no problem with us. 

In fact, the less we have to do, the happier my people will be. What kinds of work 
have you got your soldiers doing?" 
 

"We are currently embarked on a project to increase tourist revenues," said 

the colonel. "I don't know how much you know about our planet's economy..." 
 

"You'd be surprised what I know," said Phule. He and Beeker had done 

exhaustive financial research on the world they were coming to, looking for 
opportunities to make the new assignment profitable for the legionnaires (and of 
course, for themselves). Nothing had struck them as quite ripe, but that didn't mean 
they wouldn't find something once they were on the ground. 
 

Colonel Mays grunted. "Well, then, you probably know that our mines were 

played out over a generation ago, and nothing has really replaced them. Jobs are 
scarce. Many of our people are subsistence farmers-in some ways, they're the 
lucky ones. The former government tried to develop a manufacturing industry, but 
that didn't go very far." 
 

"I can see why," said Phule. "Everything you make here is being made just 

as well and just as cheaply elsewhere, so there aren't off-planet markets for it. 
You're stuck trying to lift yourselves by your own bootstraps." 
 

"Exactly, Captain," said Mays. He stubbed out the cheroot. "You've done 

your homework. So we're looking at a stagnant economy. The former government 
never could find a way to improve things. Now it's our turn to try-and I hope we can 
do better." 
 

"I understand," said Phule, his financial instincts taking over. "What avenues 

are you pursuing?" 
 

"We need off-world money, and one way to get that is to attract off-worlders 

here," said Mays with impeccable logic. "We hope to develop a tourist industry." 
 

Phule nodded, thinking of Lorelei's tourist-generated revenues. "That's not a 

bad basic plan, Colonel-in fact, it's probably your best bet. But for it to work, you 
need something that can't be duplicated off-world. You have gorgeous beaches 
and mountains, but there are beaches and mountains all over the galaxy." 
 

"Correct again," said Mays smugly. "Don't sell us short, Captain-we have 

our plans in place, and they are moving forward. Before you know it, Landoor will 
be the tourist mecca of this entire sector." 
 

"This is good news," said Phule. "Stability depends on a healthy economy. If 

I may ask, what are your plans? I'm always looking to invest a few dollars-if the 
prospective return is sufficiently appealing, of course." 
 

"Captain, I am not the person to answer those questions," said Colonel 

Mays, standing. "For that, you should speak to the Ministry of Development. I don't 
know whether they are looking for foreign investments-you will have to ask them. 
As far as I'm concerned, you can best help Landoor by insuring that the rebels 
don't sabotage our plans before they reach maturity. You saw today how desperate 
they are. They would rather bring the entire structure down around their ears rather 
than see us benefit from it. I hope we can count on you, Captain." 
 

"Colonel, you can be sure I'll do everything I can to promote the safety and 

success of your world," said Phule. "I will of course keep an eye on the rebels, as 
well as on your government's activities. But now, if you don't mind, I had best get 
started settling my people in and determining the best ways to achieve these 
goals." 
 

The two men eyed each other for a moment, quite aware that nothing had 

been settled; then Phule and his lieutenants turned and strode out of the room. 
 
Journal #373 
 

It had been a matter of concern to my employer that, for all the favorable 

publicity his Legion company had received, its achievements to date had been 
realized in a peacetime environment. The closest any of his troops had come to 
combat was in facing the Mob on Lorelei: an adversary not to be taken lightly, but 
in the last analysis a good bit less formidable than a disciplined military force. Now, 
after the events at the spaceport, it became clear that Landoor might be a much 
tougher assignment than anticipated. 
 

Not that anyone believed General Blitzkrieg's assurances that Landoor had 

been pacified. A little thought would have made it clear that a world recovering 
from a civil war-with peace imposed by outside powers-was likely to harbor a fair 
number of unsettled grudges. The assassination attempt, and the cool initial 
reception by the local government, drove those points home very forcefully to my 
employer. 
 

So, almost immediately after its arrival at its new headquarters (in the 

Landoor Plaza Hotel, located in. a new development west of the capital city) the 
company began to prepare as best it could for the possibility of combat. 
 
"All right," said Brandy, hands on hips, "you all saw what happened out there this 
morning." The recruits muttered among themselves. They had all joined the Legion 
with some notion that they might eventually be fired upon, but having that vague 
expectation become reality was a shock. It showed on their faces, and in their 
voices. 
 

"Nobody got hurt today," Brandy continued. "We hope it stays that way. But 

we've got to be ready in case somebody starts shooting again. That means being 
ready to shoot back." 
 

"Excuse me, Sergeant," came a voice from the ranks. 

 

Brandy suppressed a groan. It was Mahatma, who smiled and followed 

orders to the letter and, every now and then, asked questions nobody could 
answer-and persisted until everybody had gone crazy trying to explain the 
unexplainable. She smelled one of those questions coming up. Well, maybe she 
could buy a little time. "Mahatma, I think maybe you ought to hold your question for 
a while, OK?" 
 

"Is that an order, Sergeant?" 

 

"This is a really bad time, Mahatma." 

 

"But Sergeant, I just wanted to know..." 

 

"Not now, Mahatma!" 

 

The silence was deafening. Brandy glared at her recruits, but nobody 

seemed willing to risk annoying her further. As for Mahatma, he was still smiling, 
waiting for another chance. Brandy shook her head and went into her spiel. "OK, 
we're going to introduce you to a new weapon the company's been issued. In fact, 
we're the first in the Legion to have it, thanks to the captain's connections. We think 
it'll be especially useful here, where most of the people we'll encounter are going to 
be noncombatants." 
 

She turned to the table behind her, which was covered with a large tarp. 

She pulled back one corner far enough to get a grip on one of the items lying there, 
and turned back to show it to the recruits. "This is the Phule-Proof Model SR-1," 
she said. "The factory says it's the first real advance in nonlethal weaponry in 
decades. I'd say it's more than that-as far as I'm concerned, it's the first nonlethal 
weapon I've ever seen that's worth a damn. By which I mean it's the only one you 
can use to stop somebody who wants to kill you without killing him." 
 

That wasn't strictly true: If you stunned the driver of a fast-moving vehicle, or 

a swimmer, or a tightrope walker, it would kill them readily enough. And of course, 

somebody who panicked and missed his shot at an enemy charging from close 
range was no better off than with any other weapon. But the weapon provided an 
answer to the ticklish situation where friend and foe were inextricably mingled in a 
mob scene... 
 

Brandy raised the weapon to display it. "Now, you'll each get one of these in 

a few minutes. But first I'm going to show you its parts. I expect all of you to be able 
to name every part of the weapon and tell me its purpose. We'll start at the 
business end. This is the front sight. Some of you may have fired a rifle, where you 
have a very tight target area. You'll see that this sight is much larger. That's for two 
reasons. First, the beam's effective area is the entire body, even an extremity. You 
can catch your target in the foot and still gain the desired effect. The second factor 
is the Variable Beam Spread Adjustment, or VBSA, which is controlled by the 
Variable Beam Spread Adjustment Control, which I'll get to in a moment..." 
 

Brandy droned on, and the recruits' eyes began to glaze over as she moved 

through a long and frequently redundant catalog of the weapon's various parts. 
Normally, she would have insured their attentiveness by throwing snap questions 
at anyone who seemed in danger of dozing off during the lecture. But today... 
 

There was a sudden flurry of movement as a masked figure with a 

vibroblade in one hand leapt into the pack of recruits. It threw a hefty forearm 
around the neck of a young woman who'd chosen the service name of Brick, 
although Brandy suspected her comrades had a softer nickname for her. "Nobody 
move," rasped the intruder, waving the vibroblade inches from the captive's face. 
The recruits let out a collective gasp, and most of them stepped back-although the 
Gambolts, Brandy noted, held their position and assumed postures that suggested 
they might leap if they saw an opening. 
 

"One false move and the girl pays in blood," said the intruder, turning his 

hostage to shield himself from Brandy. "I'm not afraid of your gun." 
 

"Good," said Brandy, and pressed the firing stud. 

 

The beam caught both the intruder and Brick. They fell limp to the floor, 

without a sound. The vibroblade clattered harmless to the side. 
 

In an instant, one of the Gambolts had leapt on the intruder and pinned him 

down. Another of the recruits, Slayer, picked up the vibroblade. "Hey, this ain't 
even turned on." He leaned down and pulled off the stocking mask that the intruder 
wore. "This guy looks familiar," he said. The other recruits gathered around, 
puzzled expressions on their faces. 
 

"He ought to look familiar," said Brandy. "He's one of us. This is Gears, from 

the motor pool-he volunteered to play the bad guy so I could show you how this 
weapon works. You can get off him now, Rube. He won't hurt anybody." 
 

Rube got off of Gears and stood up. The rest of the recruits gathered around 

to look. While both Gears and Brick were lying limp on the floor, it was evident that 
both were breathing normally, and they showed no other signs of injury. 
 

"I wanted you all to see that this weapon can be used in a tight situation, 

where your target is mixed in with a lot of people you don't want to hurt," said 
Brandy. "With a conventional weapon, you'd hold your fire-and if the target is 

sufficiently determined, you might end up taking casualties because you were 
afraid to take that risk. But Gears has been hit by this ray before, and he 
volunteered to let me zap him again so you could see how it works." 
 

"That's right," said Gears, who had recovered sufficiently to raise his head 

and speak. "Flight Leftenant Qual used one of these things to save my life. So I'm 
a pretty big fan of this weapon. I let the Top zap me with it to show you how quick it 
takes down a target, without really harming him." 
 

"It'll still be a few minutes before he can stand," said Brandy, "so you'd have 

plenty of time to disarm a real enemy. And you don't have to worry about hurting 
your own people, if they're in the line of fire. How's Brick doing?" 
 

"I'm all right, Sarge," came Brick's voice, a bit faint. "My arms and legs feel 

weird, but nothing hurts." 
 

"Take those two over to the wall and prop 'em up so they can sit," said 

Brandy. "I'd hate to delay the rest of the demonstration while they recover. And 
now that you've all seen what this weapon can do, we're going to let you all have 
one to work with." 
 

The recruits were noticeably more interested, and the rest of the session 

passed rapidly. Brandy considered it an unusual success-especially since even 
Mahatma was so fascinated by the SR-1 that he never got around to asking his 
question. 
 
 
 12 
Journal #376 
 

A peacekeeping mission by its very nature is an admission that the local 

government is unable to keep the peace. Thus, it was no surprise that the 
government of Landoor looked at Omega Company as a necessary evil on the 
level of game wardens and dogcatchers. My employer's overtures to the 
government, offering to lend his people to various public works projects, met with 
blanket refusals. The government made it clear that, in their opinion, Omega 
Company could justify its presence only by exterminating the rebels-the remnants 
of the former government, and their supporters. 
 

The ordinary citizens, on the other hand, appeared to have no animosity 

against the Legion. On the captain's instructions, the legionnaires went out into the 
local community, spent their money in shops and restaurants, and tried to make 
themselves a visible benefit to the people they were here to protect. This policy 
paid the expected dividend. Legionnaires soon found themselves as popular with 
the public as they were unpopular with the government. 
 
"Hey, lookit the big guy with the funny nose," came a small voice from across the 
street. 
 

Tusk-anini stopped and peered at the group of local children. A few short 

blocks from the hotel, the neighborhood had changed rapidly, clearly showing its 
previous identity as a factory district. The dilapidated building in front of which the 

children stood bore a sign announcing its condemnation and imminent demolition 
to make way for Landoor Park. 
 

"Hello," he said. "My name Tusk-anini. You live here?" 

 

The children were whispering to one another, as if uncertain what to do now 

that they had attracted this strange creature's attention. One of them, bolder than 
the rest, stepped forward and asked, "Are you a soldier?" 
 

"Not soldier," said Tusk-anini. "Space Legion-we better than soldiers." He 

strolled across the litter-strewn street, doing his best to appear nonthreatening. For 
someone who closely resembled a seven-foot-tall warthog, this was somewhat 
difficult. But the captain had briefed the company about the importance of being 
friendly with the natives of this world, and Tusk-anini was willing to do his part. 
 

"My name's Bucky, and I'm not scared of you," said the child, scowling up at 

him from something like half his height. 
 

From behind her another high-pitched voice said, "Her real name's Claudia." 

 

"You shut up, Abdul," said Bucky/Claudia, throwing a hostile glance over her 

shoulder, then turning back to stare at Tusk-anini. She was wearing the same 
ragged clothes as her comrades. From the look on her dirty face, she wasn't about 
to back down from anybody. Tusk-anini decided that she was the leader of this little 
group. 
 

"You live here, Bucky, or you come to look at me?" he said, dropping down 

on one knee to put himself closer to the children's face level. He'd discovered that 
humans found him less intimidating if he sat or knelt to reduce the perceived 
difference in their heights. There were times when it was useful to appear 
intimidating, but this wasn't one of them. 
 

"I live over on Hastings Street," said the girl. "My family owns our own whole 

house." From the way she said it, that was a distinction she was proud of. 
 

"You got candy, mister?" asked another urchin, stepping up next to Bucky. 

She had a straw-colored shock of hair and intense, large blue eyes that seemed 
out of proportion with the rest of her face. 
 

"What your name?" asked Tusk-anini, avoiding the question. He didn't have 

any candy with him, but he could make sure to have some with him the next time 
he came by. For now, acting friendly would have to be enough. 
 

"That's Cynthia,", said Bucky. "She's my baby sister, but she's all right." She 

looked at the smaller girl-there was a sort of resemblance, now that Tusk-anini 
knew to look for it-and said, "Remember Mom told you not to take candy from 
strange men." 
 

"He's not a man," said Cynthia, with impeccable logic. One or two other 

children nodded in agreement. Tusk-anini might be a stranger, but he did not fit 
into any definition of man they considered relevant. Especially if it left open a 
loophole through which candy might be obtained. 
 

"Tusk-anini no bring candy this time," he said. "Next time I come here, I 

bring some. But you ask Mom if it OK to take from me. No want her mad at me." 
 

"He talks funny, too." One of the others had evidently decided that failure to 

bring candy was grounds for pointed commentary on the stranger's differences 

from local standards of appearance and speech. 
 

"Shut up, Abdul," said Bucky. "He's. an alien. Aliens can't help it if they look 

and talk funny." 
 

"I don't like him," said Abdul, pouting. "Aliens don't belong here, anyhow." 

 

Tusk-anini was considering whether it would be diplomatic to point out that, 

except for the miracle of interstellar travel, neither did humans belong here, and 
that where everyone was an alien it was best to practice tolerance, when the 
children's attention was distracted by a new arrival on the scene. "Wow, what's 
that?" said Bucky, her jaw dropping. 
 

Tusk-anini turned to follow the children's gaze, and saw a familiar sight: 

Spartacus, one of the Synthian legionnaires, had come around the corner and was 
casually zigzagging down the street on his glide-board. Tusk-anini waved. "Friend 
Spartacus, come over here," he said. 
 

"Wow, is that your friend?" said Abdul. "What's that thing he's riding?" He 

seemed entirely oblivious to the fact that the Synthian resembled nothing so much 
as a large slug in a Legion uniform. 
 

"I am riding a glide-board," said Spartacus. The translator rendered his 

voice as a rich baritone, with an aristocratic accent that always surprised those 
meeting him for the first time. It was also an incongruous touch, considering the 
Synthian's strong populist leanings-but of course these children would have no 
notion of that. 
 

"Triff," said Bucky. "Can you show us how to ride it?" 

 

"I think I can do better than that," said Spartacus. "If my friend Tusk-anini will 

help, I think the captain will let us bring several glide-boards along the next time we 
visit. Then you can all learn how to ride." 
 

"Wow," said Abdul, his eyes growing round. "You guys are really cool." 

 

Tusk-anini chuckled in his warthoggish fashion. Perhaps he wouldn't need to 

give Abdul that lesson on tolerance, after all. An alien bearing a new toy trumped 
human chauvinism every time. 
 
Journal #378 
 

Landoor turned out to be not only a welcome change from life on a space 

station, but an extremely attractive environment in and of itself. As the legionnaires 
began to explore the city and the surrounding region, they discovered that the 
nearby beaches and the mountainous northern end of the island were every bit as 
scenic as the tourist brochures made them appear. The local cuisine, which drew 
on several Terran traditions, was good enough to offer an attractive alternative to 
the excellent fare provided by Mess Sergeant Escrima-who eagerly began to add 
local dishes to his own repertoire. 
 
Escrima looked around the hotel kitchen. From the gleaming equipment on display, 
and the delicious aromas permeating the air, this was the kitchen of a world-class 
restaurant. It was a rare Legion mess sergeant who'd had the opportunity to 
actually prepare food... 

 

Most of the odors were familiar. There was garlic and bay leaf, peppers and 

onions, tomatoes, the blander aromas of rice and beans in simmering pots. There 
was also meat, possibly several different kinds, being roasted, grilled, stewed, and 
sauteed. This last aroma Escrima could not identify, which puzzled him. Evidently it 
was some indigenous meat. But it was almost unheard of for humans to be able to 
eat the flesh of a local animal. 
 

Well, he'd find out. He had an appointment with the hotel's head chef-who 

was somewhat apprehensive about turning his kitchen into a Legion mess hall. 
Escrima was here to cure him of that preconception. 
 

He walked over and took the lid off a simmering pot for a closer look. The 

contents was a spicy stew, with savory meat and onions-and more. He was looking 
around for a spoon to taste a sample when a voice behind him said, "Ah, would 
you be the Army cook?" 
 

"Not Army, Space Legion," said Escrima, doing his best to keep his voice 

from snapping at the newcomer, who was dressed in the traditional chef's hat and 
white apron. "I'm Sergeant Escrima, Food Preparation Specialist E-9, here to 
inspect the facilities. You've been told that we're going to be sharing the kitchen." 
 

"Yes, Sergeant," said the chef. "This will be a very...ah, 

interesting...experience, I think." 
 

"You're telling me?" said Escrima. "I got an appetite just walking into this 

kitchen. If the Legion won't eat this stuff, they ought to be checked for signs of life. I 
can see there's a whole new cuisine for me to learn. What do you call this dish?" 
 

"Nutria jambalaya," said the cook. "One of our Creole-style dishes. We also 

have sweet and sour nutria with bingo beans, and nutria parmigiana on the menu 
tonight." 
 

"Nutria?" Escrima was puzzled. "That must be the meat, but I don't 

recognize the name. Is it vat-grown?" 
 

"No, no, you have missed it completely," said the cook, smiling. "Nutria is 

our most famous animal, imported from Earth by the Moguls. In their day, it was 
rare, and as expensive as horse or pompano. But the nutria thrived in the lowland 
swamps, and now the animal is so common that it has become our major 
indigenous source of protein." 
 

"An Earth animal," said Escrima. "That should be good, then-when there's 

real meat locally, I'll almost never use vat protein. What kind of animal is it?" 
 

"Game, sergeant," said the sergeant. "Has a very robust flavor, goes nicely 

roasted or in a spicy sauce. Very versatile, like chicken or cow, but much cheaper. 
The jambalaya won't really be ready until I add the rice to the meat and vegetables. 
But this will give you an idea of how it will taste." 
 

Escrima filled a spoon and tasted. "Excellent," he said. "You're right, that 

meat will fit a lot of places-this dish will have 'em lining up for seconds. If it really is 
cheaper than chicken, the troops are going to eat a lot of this nutria. 
 

The cook smiled. "Trust me, Sergeant, once you've gotten used to nutria, 

you'll be using it in all your recipes." 
 

"Well, no time like the present," said Escrima. "Why don't you show me what 

else you're cooking tonight?" 
 

Within minutes, the two chefs were comparing notes on spices and 

discussing the best local sources for fresh produce. The undercooks listened in 
growing awe to a pair of culinary artists picking each other's brains. The food was 
going to be even better than usual that evening... 
 
Journal #381 
 

Directly across the street from the Landoor Plaza Hotel was a large vacant 

area, fenced off and posted. When he inquired about it, my employer was informed 
that it was destined to be part of Landoor Park, a large project funded by the 
government as part of its economic revival plan. However, as to the exact nature of 
Landoor Park, the locals had nothing to say... 
 
"Captain, I must inform you that stock in our projects is not being offered to off-
world investors." Boris Eastman's tone and expression made it clear that he 
considered the question an impertinence. And both the size and decor of his office 
made it clear that he had no authority to change policy even if he were so inclined. 
But he was the only official willing to meet with the captain of the peacekeeping 
team, and Phule was determined to get what he could out of the interview. 
 

"Mr. Eastman, I am not about to lecture you on economics," said Phule, with 

more than a trace of annoyance in his voice. He had gone into town to the Ministry 
of Development, a large building in the neo-Bauhaus style, and despite having 
made a firm appointment, had been kept waiting in an outer office while several 
locals were ushered in and out. The receptionist behind the desk had treated his 
inquiries with ill-disguised disinterest. But he had persevered, and finally was 
ushered into the deputy's office. 
 

"That is good," said Eastman, "because I would not expect a foreigner to 

understand our local situation. We have a long history, and we have arrived at 
policies based on our unique experience." 
 

"I am aware that your grasp of local conditions may exceed my own," said 

Phule, with more tact than customary. Given his extensive research into the 
economy of Landoor, he probably knew more about local conditions than the 
deputy. "But perhaps you will do me the favor of explaining your rejection of foreign 
capital. I would think that bringing resources in from off-planet would be the 
quickest way to give your economy the boost it needs." 
 

"That is a superficial assessment," said Eastman, sniffing. "As you would 

know if you were a native, our world was originally a mining colony..." 
 

"Yes, I have read your history," said Phule, losing his patience. "This world 

was discovered in 2521 CE by an expedition from New Baltimore. A geologist on 
the expedition, Alberto Belperio, found igneous formations on the northern 
continental mass-now named for him-bearing an unusually high concentration of 
several rare minerals. He and the ship's captain, Martin Landoor, returned to New 
Baltimore and raised four hundred seventeen million credits to exploit the deposits. 
Mining began in 2526..." He continued from memory for several minutes, piling 

detail upon detail. 
 

"Enough, Captain!" Eastman, whose face had turned bright red, finally 

interrupted him. "You have convinced me that you know our history." He wiped his 
forehead with a large handkerchief and continued, "Perhaps you also know about 
the collapse of the economy a generation ago." 
 

"Yes. A series of improvements in mining technique made it feasible to 

extract the minerals from the poorer ore on several other planets. All of a sudden, 
the Moguls lost their monopoly." 
 

"And the foreign scum, having sucked us dry, took their profits and left us to 

wither away," said Eastman, pounding his fist on the desktop. "We have learned 
one key lesson from that, Captain. Never again will Landoor be held hostage by 
foreign money. Landoor Park will be financed by money we raise from our own 
people, not from the likes of you." 
 

Somehow, Phule kept his temper. "Mr. Eastman, you are making a mistake. 

If you will notice, my legionnaires and I are already pumping a fair amount of 
money into this economy. If your plans to attract foreign tourism succeed, you will 
be even more heavily dependent on off-planet money. If a little foreign seed money 
helps you get on your feet, why not take it? This isn't a zero-sum game we're 
playing." 
 

Eastman shook his head. "Captain, we appreciate the fact that your troops 

are spending their money in our local businesses. You realize, of course, that this 
is a pittance. Your troops would be of far greater benefit to us if you sent them to 
the mainland to end the rebellion once and for all." 
 

"Really?" Phule's eyebrows rose a notch. "I was under the impression that 

the rebels were a joke-from what the previous peacekeeping troops reported, the 
only thing they've done in years is take a potshot at me, back when we landed." 
 

"They are a symptom of all that was wrong with the old government," fumed 

Eastman. "Far from working to liberate the people, they are behind most of the 
crime here in the capital. They are constantly sabotaging our efforts to rebuild the 
economy-why, nearly one in three of our signs for Landoor Park has been defaced 
by them." 
 

"I saw that, but it seemed like petty vandalism to me," said Phule. "I'll look 

into it, of course." 
 

Eastman was livid. "Look into it? Better you should suppress the rebels once 

and for all." 
 

"Mr. Eastman, that is not my mission," said Phule. "My orders strictly forbid 

offensive operations on this planet. If the rebels attack the city, or take other 
military action, we will stop them. By the same token, if your government takes any 
direct action against the rebels, we will stop you. Frankly, I don't want to take action 
against either side. I would be much happier investing my money to help rebuild 
this planet. That's what I came here to talk about." 
 

"And, as I told you, we do not want your money," said Eastman. "I believe 

this interview is at an end, Captain." 
 

"I'm afraid you're right about that," said Phule, rising to his feet. "It may be 

the only thing you've been right about all day." And he stalked out of the deputy's 
office, slamming the door behind him. 
 
The eastern beaches of Atlantis were widely considered the choicest on Landoor. 
They offered broad expanses of amber sand, warm water, a gentle slope from 
wading to swimming depth, serious surf beyond the outer bar, as well as what most 
locals considered the right balance of natural beauty and such amenities as 
cabanas, boardwalks, and food vendors. So as soon as the new Legion base was 
sufficiently set up to give a few personnel a day's leave, a rented hoverbus arrived 
at Sunrise State Beach and unloaded a large pack of legionnaires in swimsuits, 
carrying blankets, picnic coolers, and an assortment of beach toys. 
 

It was early enough in the morning that only a few blankets and umbrellas 

were in place on the sand, so the Legion contingent had its pick of spots to set up. 
Brandy chose a large dune well above the surf line, where they dropped off their 
baggage. Then, she made a beeline for the surf, with two dozen legionnaires 
whooping and hollering behind her. A riot of ducking, splashing, and other 
horseplay broke out at the water's edge. The few non-Legion bathers quickly 
withdrew to a safe distance, casting wary looks toward the frolicking newcomers. 
 

After a while, two civilians strolled up to the little group that hadn't gone into 

the water. "You guys ain't from around here," one of them said to Flight Leftenant 
Qual, who was allowing Super-Gnat to bury him in the sand. 
 

"You are observant," said Qual, flashing his allosaurus grin. 

 

The local drew back a pace, but then noticing the tiny woman fearlessly 

dumping handfuls of sand onto the toothy alien's torso, tried another 
conversational gambit. "You talk pretty good for a foreigner." 
 

"Oh, I hasten to assure you, everyone on my world talks, some even better 

than I," said Qual, with a jovial chuckle. "You should hear Chief Potentary Korg 
when he gets his jaw wagging." 
 

"Is that so? I reckon he's something, then," said the Landooran, a skinny 

youth with an asymmetrical haircut that needed retrimming. "I'm Okidata, by the 
way, and this is my girlfriend Wandalune. We're from out South Worton, down by 
Dunes Park." 
 

"I do not know that district," said Qual. "Perhaps I shall visit it now that I 

have met someone from there." 
 

"When somebody gives you their name, you're supposed to introduce 

yourself in return," said Super-Gnat, laughing. She turned to the two locals. "This is 
Qual-he doesn't know human customs too well yet-and they call me Gnat. We're 
staying in the Landoor Plaza, out west of town." 
 

"Wow, I hear that's a fancy place," said Wandalune, wide-eyed. "Are you 

rich tourists?" 
 

"Nope," said Gnat. "We're here to do a job, is all. The boss gave us the day 

off, so a bunch of us decided to see what your beach was like. I'm glad we did." 
 

"That's a triff boss," said Okidata. "Last guy I worked for, he bounced me for 

going to my sister's funeral without asking. He didn't warn me fair, so I managed to 

get unemployment, but jobs are scarce. There's a new government park hiring, but 
they had a waiting list longer than the Weasel. I'm still looking, but the 
unemployment may run out before I get anything." 
 

"That rots, for sure. What kind of work were you doing?" said Gnat. 

 

"I was a mechanic at a ride park," said Okidata. "An apprentice mechanic, 

really-lug the tools and clean up grease spills and do the dirty work. They think you 
don't have anywhere else to go, the dirty work can get pretty dirty. You wanna eat, 
you do it, though." 
 

Then he grinned. "Besides, it's what I wanted to do ever since I was a kid. 

My old man wanted me to be a printer, like him, but I always wanted to work in a 
park." His voice changed, and he squinted at the legionnaires. "What about you 
guys? I didn't know they were bringing in foreigners to work here. There's not 
enough real jobs for us natives." 
 

"I know all about that," said Gnat. She dumped a final load of sand on Qual 

and dusted off her hands. "Jobs were pretty scarce back on my home world, too-so 
I joined the Space Legion. Our job here is to keep you guys from shooting each 
other. Want to join up and help us?" She grinned. 
 

"If that's the whole job, you might get a lot of people to join up," said 

Okidata. "Hasn't been any shooting since the war ended, which is about the only 
good thing I can say about this place. I'd take that chance, for a regular paycheck." 
 

"So would I," said Wandalune. "I got out of school a year ago, and I've been 

looking for work ever since. I've had a few fill-in jobs, but nothing longer than a 
couple weeks. Same with all my friends. Most of 'em have quit looking." 
 

"Uh-huh," said Gnat. "Well, the Legion's a steady paycheck and three 

squares a day, and a chance to get offworld, if you want to see something besides 
home. But there's plenty of dirty work here, too. Maybe you should talk to our 
captain-find out whether it's really your idea of what you want to do for the next few 
years." 
 

"Maybe I will," said Okidata, though he looked doubtful. 

 

"It is an honorable calling," said Qual, from underneath the sand pile. 

"Captain Clown has given his troops opportunities of great rarity. Ambitious 
hatchlings could do far worse." 
 

"We'll think about it," said Wandalune. Then she reached out and took her 

boyfriend's hand. "Come on, Okey, let's go see if the rides are open yet." And the 
two locals wandered up the beach toward a medium-sized amusement park visible 
beyond the boardwalk. 
 

As they departed, Tusk-anini came out of the surf and trotted up to Super-

Gnat. He was dripping wet, with a thick pair of dark goggles covering his light-
sensitive eyes. "Who those people, Gnat?" he said, noting her frown. "They 
bothering you?" 
 

"Not the way you mean," said Super-Gnat, looking after the departing locals. 

"What bothers me, if they're telling the truth, is that a lot of kids here can't find jobs. 
That could make our job here tougher, if it's true." 
 

"You mean they think we taking jobs from them?" said Tusk-anini. "Not true. 

We come here, bring in money from off-world. More money for everyone here." 
 

"They're still likely to resent us if they see we've got money to spend when 

they don't," said Gnat, shaking her head. 
 

"This may produce a problem," said Qual. "Alas, our power to change that is 

circumscribed." 
 

"You said a mouthful," said Gnat. "I hope this whole job isn't more than we 

can swallow." 
 

"Do not fear, small strong one," said Qual, chuckling. "My people have a 

saying: `Better the swamp than the desert, but the river is swifter than either one.' " 
 

"Huh? What's that mean?" Super-Gnat wasn't always sure the Zenobian's 

translator was correctly wired. 
 

"Don't care," said Tusk-anini. "Right now we on the beach, so I not going to 

worry. Come on, you want to go in water?" 
 

"Race you there," said Super-Gnat, and they took off running. Qual lay back 

and closed his eyes, grinning. 
 
Journal #387 
 

My employer's attitude toward the current government of Landoor had taken 

on a degree of skepticism. Despite his professed desire to help rebuild the planet, 
they were clearly reluctant to provide him with much useful information concerning 
their plans to develop a tourist industry-in which they claimed to put great stock. 
And they told him they did not want him investing his money in the Landoor Park 
project. 
 

His suspicion of the government was only heightened by Boris Eastman's 

clumsy attempt to portray the shots fired at him at the spaceport as grounds to 
undertake operations against the rebels. However, I suspect that being balked in 
his desire to invest in the project made him decide to find out exactly what was 
going on in Landoor Park. When the usual interplanetary databases turned up no 
useful information, he decided to do his own research-right on the ground. 
 
"What are we looking for, anyway, Soosh?" Do-Wop asked. He and his partner 
were in a former industrial quarter of Landoor City, dressed in civilian clothes. 
Except for the two legionnaires, the trash-filled streets were almost deserted. The 
few pedestrians they did encounter crossed the street or ducked into alleyways, 
seeking to avoid notice. It seemed clear that few honest citizens had business 
here, nowadays. 
 

"The captain isn't sure," said Sushi, peering through the links of a rusting 

fence that bore a sign reading, FUTURE SITE OF LANDOOR PARK. The factory 
wall inside bore enigmatic graffiti, above a small pile of broken liquor bottles. A tall 
plant bearing bright blue flowers sprang from a patch of weeds. Nothing of 
apparent value was visible. 
 

"Oh, great," said Do-Wop. "So he sends us out to the ugliest chunk of 

landscape I've seen since the swamps back on Haskin's Planet, and tells us to look 
around for somethin' he ain't sure about. How do we know when we find it. 

 

"Use your brains," said Sushi. "I know you've got some. The captain says 

the government here has some sort of secret project going on-he isn't sure what, 
but apparently they've put a lot of their resources into it. Something like that ought 
to be big enough to notice. Especially in this part of town-I don't think anybody 
could build a hotdog stand here without it sticking out like a sore thumb." 
 

Do-Wop frowned. "If it's that easy to spot, you'd think he could see it from 

the hotel roof as well as we can down here. Maybe better, with those high-powered 
glasses of his." 
 

Sushi shrugged. "I know for a fact he's been up there looking, but it's not 

really high enough. I'd be surprised if he hasn't sent out a few spy-bots, as well. I 
guess he wants to get the grunt's-eye view. If he thinks we can give him something 
useful, I say we do our best to come up with something." 
 

"OK, I guess you got a point, there," said Do-Wop. He kicked a fragment of 

shattered brick that must have fallen from a nearby building. "All I know is, 
whatever the captain's after, it ain't out here." 
 

"Well, not anywhere we've been so far, anyway," Sushi agreed. "We've got 

plenty of time left, though. Let's go see what's down the street. Maybe there'll be a 
bar open, and a few local pigeons we can lure into a little game of chance, and ask 
them to tell us about secret government projects while we take their money." 
 

"Dream on, dude," said Do-Wop. "We've got about as much chance of that 

as we do of finding a couple kilos of loose diamonds on the corner...Hey, what's 
that noise?" 
 

Sushi stopped and listened. A muffled rhythmic pounding was coming from 

somewhere in the distance; the timbre of the sound suggested a heavy hammer 
striking a thick wooden block. He grinned and said, "I don't know what it is, but I 
think we just found something worth a closer look. Which way do you think it is?" 
 

"Ahead and to the right," said Do-Wop. "Let's go check it out, then." 

 

They walked along the street between rubble-strewn vacant lots and 

decaying buildings, the sound gradually becoming louder. "It's a mechanical 
sound-maybe a pile driver," said Sushi. 
 

"Or a really big guy with a sledgehammer," said Do-Wop, feigning worry. 

"Don't wanna mess with him." 
 

"Hey, he'd better not mess with us," said Sushi, laughing. "Not only are we 

the best company in the Legion, I'm the number one man in the local Yakuza 
family." 
 

"Oh, yeah, I almost forgot," said Do-Wop. "In that case, you go first." 

 

Sushi punched him in the biceps. "Right, tiger. Odds are, we're going to find 

some local kids building a clubhouse. The only thing to worry about is them 
mobbing us for candy and handouts." 
 

"Yo, man, I grew up in a neighborhood a lot like this," said Do-Wop, his eyes 

shifting from side to side. "Had me a vibroblade when I was eight years old, and a 
zapper before I was shavin'. Any kids around here, you and me could be in real 
trouble if they mob us." 
 

"Yeah, but we have two advantages on them, Do-Wop." 

 

"What's that, Soosh?" 

 

"First, you've learned fifteen years worth of dirty tricks that no kid could 

possibly know. And second, I've got a whole bag full of tricks you haven't even 
learned yet." 
 

Do-Wop nodded. "Hey, that's cool, man. But there's still one thing has me 

worried." 
 

"OK, I'll bite. What's that?" 

 

"What if it ain't kids?" 

 

Sushi grinned. "In that case, they're the ones who'd better be worried. Come 

on, let's go." They walked together toward the pounding noise. 
 
Phule and Brandy sat at a poolside table in the Landoor Plaza, enjoying the sun 
while reviewing the new recruits' progress. They were by now far enough along in 
their training to perform most of the company's regular jobs, and Phule wanted to 
integrate them into the unit as broadly as possible. 
 

The question was whether to pair some of the new troops with more 

experienced members of the company, or to leave existing partnerships intact. 
Brandy argued for keeping things as they were, while Phule favored creative 
tinkering. By now, the discussion had boiled down to individual cases. Both agreed 
that certain pairings ought to be considered untouchable: Tusk-anini and Super 
Gnat were the prime example. But what about Sushi and Do-Wop? 
 

"I put them together because I thought they'd both learn something," said 

Phule. "Do-Wop was too impulsive for his own good, or anybody else's-he'd steal 
anything that wasn't nailed down. And Sushi was way too calculating-a classic cold 
fish. But I'm afraid they've learned their lessons too well. If we put one of them with 
Mahatma, maybe that'll give them a better sense of ethics." 
 

"It'd turn Mahatma into a cynic," said Brandy. "Heaven help us if that 

happens. Leave 'em alone, I say. They're perfect together, Captain." 
 

"Too perfect," said Phule, shaking his head. "After that escapade the day we 

left Lorelei..." 
 

"Easy, Captain, here they come," said Brandy, looking across the pool. 

"Grinning from ear to ear, too." 
 

"Trouble, I bet," said Phule, He turned to look at the two arriving 

legionnaires. "All right, what have you two been up to?" he said, as they 
approached the table. 
 

"Doing our job, Captain," said Sushi. "We've been scouting the government 

park, and guess what we found?" 
 

"From the look of you, I'm not sure I want to know," said Phule. "But go 

ahead and report." 
 

"Aww, Captain, you really oughta trust us more," said Do-Wop. "We learned 

our lesson, no foolin'." 
 

"I don't think he wants to hear what we found," said Sushi, nudging Do-Wop. 

"He'll find out in a few months, anyway." 
 

"Yeah, I guess you're right. He can always go over and take a look for 

himself," said Do-Wop, winking. 
 

"I should have known better," moaned Phule. He looked the two grinning 

legionnaires in the eye and said, with all the sincerity he could muster, "I apologize 
for any aspersions cast on your character, and humbly request your report." 
 

"Does that mean what I think it does?" said Do-Wop, looking at Sushi. "Are 

we out of the doghouse?" 
 

"Sounds like it to me," said Sushi. He came to attention. "Sir, we wish to 

report our observations in the area we were dispatched to scout. We set out from 
the hotel entrance at thirteen hundred hours, on a bearing of..." 
 

"OK, you clowns, enough is enough!" Brandy barked. "Now, what did you 

find?" 
 

"Top don't want us to have any fun at all," muttered Do-Wop. "See if I 

reenlist in this outfit..." 
 

"Keep it up, and you'll find out what my idea of fun is," said Brandy, in a 

menacing tone. "Spill it!" 
 

"Well, if you both insist," said Sushi, with an offended expression that might 

have been convincing if he hadn't then broken into a grin and said. "We found roller 
coasters." 
 

"A roller coaster?" said Brandy and Phule, almost in unison. 

 

"Roller coasters," Sushi corrected. "At least three of 'em, all different 

designs." 
 

Phule's jaw hung open. "Are you sure?" 

 

"Sure as a rigged election," said Do-Wop. 

 

"Go look for yourself," said Sushi, shrugging. "If you can think of anything 

else those babies could be, I'll be glad to listen, They're still under construction, but 
if they aren't roller coasters, I've never seen one. Anyhow, here are the map 
coordinates, best we could figure them out-we had to look over the fence from the 
roof of a condemned factory building." 
 

"Roller coasters," repeated Brandy. "I don't get it." 

 

"I do," said Phule. "Now I know the government's plan to turn around the 

local economy. It should have been obvious! They're going to build a giant theme 
park!" 
 

"If it's so obvious, why the secrecy?" said Brandy, frowning. "You'd think 

they'd want the whole galaxy to know about it." 
 

"Yes, you'd think so," said Phule. "The only answer I can think of is fear that 

somebody will find out about the idea and steal it. The government here is very 
suspicious of off-planet influences. They aren't used to thinking of outsiders as a 
source of help. Well, we're going to have to change that." 
 

"Sure," said Brandy. "But how?" 

 

"I'll tell you when I figure it out," said Phule. 

 
 
 13 
Journal #393 

 

The discovery that the government's secret project was a gigantic theme 

park answered a number of questions. Now we knew their strategy for bringing in 
off-world visitors: to make Landoor the amusement park and thrill-ride capital of the 
galaxy. The idea had its merits; with unmatched beaches, equable climate, and 
exotic scenery, the planet already had the makings of a tourist mecca. 
Supplementing these natural assets with the ultimate in technological excitement 
was a sound strategy, and one suited to the Landooran temperament. 
 

Unfortunately, the government was laboring under several disadvantages. 

The recent war, combined with exaggerated reports of rebel activities, had made 
tourists distinctly leery of making the world a vacation destination. An aggressive 
publicity campaign could undoubtedly have overcome this, but the government had 
made almost no efforts in this direction. My employer, who well understood the 
power of positive publicity, found this inexplicable until a chance conversation put 
things into perspective. 
 
"Wake up, honey-bun." Mother's voice came over the comm system, startling 
Phule. He hadn't been asleep, but he had been in a deep study about what his 
most recent intelligence reports meant. "We've got a local to see you," she said. 
 "Anybody 

we 

know?" 

 

"Says his name is Okidata, and claims to know Super-Gnat and Qual," said 

Mother. "Just a young kid-I bet he'd like to know Gnat better. Says he's interested 
in joining the Legion." 
 

"Suddenly I'm a recruiting officer, on top of everything else," muttered Phule, 

thinking of Laverna. For a moment he considered passing the kid on to someone 
with more time. On second thought, it might be refreshing to talk to someone 
outside the usual circle. Perhaps this local kid could give him insight for the 
company's mission here. "Send him in," he said. 
 

Okidata was dressed in what, from Phule's limited contact with local 

civilians, seemed to be job interview clothes. He shook hands somewhat nervously 
and sat down in the seat Phule indicated. "I met some of your soldiers at the 
beach," he said. "I told them jobs were scarce around here, and they suggested I 
think about joining up. I don't know if they were serious, but jobs aren't getting any 
easier to find. So I'm here to find out what the Legion's about." 
 

"Well, I can probably answer some of your questions," said Phule. "But 

maybe you'd do better by telling me what kind of job you're looking for, and I can 
tell you whether there's anything like it in the Legion." 
 

"I used to be a roller coaster mechanic..." Okidata said. "When I lost my job, 

I applied to the new government park, but they turned me down because my 
cousin's out with the rebels. I guess I'm open to suggestions." 
 

"Really?" said Phule, like a hungry dog jumping on an unguarded sirloin. 

"Suppose I show you a picture and you tell me what you make of it." 
 

In the next fifteen minutes, Phule learned more about roller coasters and 

other thrill rides than he'd learned in his entire lifetime, and Okidata was still 
warming to his subject. Judging from the spy holos, the government park was 

erecting a sort of culmination of existing roller coaster design-an ultraride. "Unless 
you're totally wrong about the scale, that's gonna be the best ride on the planet," 
said Okidata, shaking his head appreciatively. "That first drop has to be ten meters 
higher than the Kingsnake, over in Dressage Park. Those cars will be hitting some 
crazy speeds-and look at those corkscrew loops! Everybody's gonna want to ride 
that baby." 
 

"There's a problem with that, though," said Phule. "From what you tell me, 

this planet is close to fanatical about thrill rides and amusement parks. Am I right?" 
 

"I guess so," said Okidata. "I've never been off-world, so that's hard to 

judge. We sure like 'em a lot, though." He turned his eyes longingly back toward 
the holo of the new government roller coaster. 
 

Phule put both elbows on his desk and his chin on his folded hands. "OK, so 

the government has a master plan to build the biggest theme park in the planet's 
history-maybe the biggest in the galaxy. A circus big enough to make up for the 
shortage of bread. But they're keeping absolutely mum about it. You never heard of 
it, even though you applied for a job there. And my men had to go out snooping to 
figure out what they were doing with that big chunk of vacant land. Why aren't they 
shouting it from the rooftops?" 
 

"Well, I sort of understand that," said Okidata. "We've got five or six ride 

parks, and they're all playing cutthroat against the others. Every time one of 'em 
has a new ride, they get more customers than the rest, until somebody tops it. So 
when word gets out they're building something new, all the others have spies, with 
hidden cameras and everything, trying to learn the secrets even before it opens. 
How steep is the main drop-off? How many flip-overs does it have? Are they using 
video enhancements? Sometimes, when a new ride opens, half the people in line 
are spies from the other parks, trying to figure out what they can steal for their own 
rides." 
 

"So the government is acting on the same principles as the private parks," 

said Phule. "They think in terms of a limited customer pool, when the real game is 
drawing people from off-planet." 
 

"I never thought of that," said Okidata, scratching his head. "Makes some 

sense, though." 
 

"If you want to get people in from off-world, you need to tell them about it," 

said Phule, smacking his palm on the desk. "And if you get enough of them, you 
don't worry as much about the competition, because there's more business for 
everybody. The government's still playing by the old rules, but the game has 
changed. And maybe it's about to change some more..." 
 

"Looks to me like maybe you could use a guy with my background," 

ventured Okidata. He smiled. 
 

"I think you're right," said Phule, suddenly standing up. "Ask for an 

application in the outer office. I've got a job, and you're the man I want for it." 
 

"Does this mean you want me to join the Legion?" said Okidata, watching 

Phule, who abruptly began stuffing holos and printouts into a briefcase. 
 

Phule looked up at him. "Not yet, son-you'll be a civilian consultant. But I do 

have a job you're perfect for. Now, go fill out that application-things are about to get 
exciting around here, and we need you on board!" 
 
Journal #405 
 

To date, the rebels remained an unknown factor in our picture of Landoor. 

The legion troops were here, in theory, as much to protect their interests as the 
government's. But with the possible exception of the shots fired at my employer 
upon our landing-and there was much room for doubt about that incident-we had 
seen nothing of them. This did not sit well with my employer, and I knew that he 
would eventually decide to remedy the situation by meeting them face to face. 
Discovering the true nature of Landoor Park gave him the incentive he had lacked. 
 

Needless to say, I considered this an overoptimistic approach to the 

problem. Not that I had any reason to believe that my employer would pay any 
attention to my doubts... 
 
"So here's what they're building," said Phule. Once he knew exactly what to look 
for, it had been a simple matter to drop a few handfuls of tiny robot cameras in the 
proper vicinity. Government counter-bots had hunted them down and eliminated 
them, but not before they'd returned enough holointelligence to give Phule a clear 
picture of the government's gigantic roller coaster. 
 

"It is quite a surprise, sir," said Beeker, looking over his employer's shoulder. 

"A rather quixotic undertaking, if you want my opinion." 
 

"But brilliant, in its way," said Phule, leaning back in his chair. "If anything 

could attract enough money from off-world to revitalize this planet, a theme park is 
exactly the ticket. Why, it must be the biggest thing of its kind I've ever seen." 
 

"You would be a better judge of that than I, sir," said Beeker. The butler was 

obviously not as impressed as his employer. "It strikes me as imprudent in the 
extreme to invest all their capital in this single project. And as you discovered, they 
are not interested in off-world investors." 
 

"Well, at least not if the investor is me," said Phule. "It's too bad-the one 

lesson they've learned from their history is not to let off-world money control their 
economy. As a result, they've put all their eggs in one very precarious basket." 
 

"The time-tested road to ruin," said Beeker, solemnly. "If this project fails..." 

He let the sentence trail off. 
 

Phule finished it for him, "If it fails, they're wiped out." He leaned forward and 

pointed to the pictures. "The devil of it is, this isn't at all a bad idea, in and of itself. 
It's almost enough to do the job they want it to do. Almost..." A dreamy look came 
over his face. 
 

Beeker recognized what Phule's expression meant. "Sir, if you are looking 

for a way to throw away money, you would be better advised to return to Lorelei 
and bet against the house in one of Maxine Pruett's casinos. It would be 
considerably slower and less frustrating than what I fear you are contemplating." 
 

Phule chuckled. "You know my mind, don't you, Beeker? But listen to this: 

The only thing really wrong with what the government is doing is that they're relying 

on the park to restart their economy. And nobody else on the planet has either the 
capital or know-how to make it succeed." 
 

"Nobody except you," said Beeker, straight-faced. 

 

"Nobody except me," Phule agreed. His smile was the epitome of self-

satisfaction. 
 

"You were sent here to keep the locals from killing one another, not to ruin 

yourself trying to bail out their economy." 
 

"Well, they aren't trying to kill each other, so I must be doing something 

right," said Phule. 
 

"They haven't been trying to kill one another since the war ended," Beeker 

pointed out. "On the other hand, someone definitely tried to kill you." 
 

"That's not proven," said Phule. "The government wants me to think the 

rebels did it, in hopes that I'll send out my people to suppress the rebels for them. 
In fact, I wouldn't put it past Colonel Mays to send one of his own men to fire off a 
couple of shots in my direction." 
 

"Of course, that does not mean the rebels wish you no harm," said Beeker. 

"They evidently have learned of your responsibility for the strafing incident." 
 

"Yes, well, I suppose I was going to have to confront that part of my past 

sooner or later," said Phule. "Nobody was really hurt, you know...I guess it'd be 
better to tackle it head-on than to keep dodging it...Say, that's not a bad idea, come 
to think of it. I wonder where the rebel headquarters is?" 
 

Beeker's jaw dropped. "Sir! It was bad enough when you contemplated 

throwing away your money, but I really must advise against throwing away your life 
as well." 
 

"Don't be such a nanny, Beeker," said Phule. He was on his feet and pacing, 

a sure sign that his mind was racing at top speed. "We're not here to work for the 
current government, whatever they want to think. My orders are to help all the 
people, and that certainly includes the rebels, if they want to take advantage of my 
generosity." 
 

"So you mean to offer them the opportunity to put a noose around your 

neck," said Beeker. "Sir, you cannot expect me to stand aside and allow you to do 
this." 
 

"No, of course not," said Phule. "I was planning on taking you along when I 

go to meet them. You and the chaplain, I think." 
 

"What?" Beeker's eyes went wide. "What good can the chaplain possibly 

do?" 
 

Phule spread his hands. "Why, he's a man of peace-what better symbol of 

my peaceful intentions? And you're obviously a noncombatant-no kind of threat. 
Unless everything we know about them is wrong, neither of you will be in the least 
danger. And you'll serve as insurance for me-even if they have a grudge against 
me, I don't think they'll act too hastily if there are innocent witnesses." 
 

"Very well, sir. You have obviously made up your mind," said Beeker, rising 

from his chair. "I suppose I had best prepare for the journey. When do you intend 
to leave? And will you at least inform your officers of your intentions? Perhaps they 

can offer some competent military advice." 
 

Phule shook his head. "Their advice would be to take along a squad of 

armed legionnaires, and that would be exactly the wrong thing to do. This needs to 
be a secret mission. I've found a young civilian who's got a cousin in the rebel 
camp, and he claims to know the way. And unless we want to lose valuable time, 
we should leave as quickly as possible." 
 

"As you wish, sir," said Beeker. "I only hope you have some idea what you 

are doing." 
 

"Of course I do," said Phule brightly. "I'm going to save the entire planet. 

Isn't that what we're here for?" 
 
Journal #406 
 

Our departure from Lorelei had left behind an unstable situation, and 

potentially a very dangerous one. My employer's confidence in the android double 
he had programmed to impersonate himself seemed to me excessive. Eventually, 
the local gangsters were bound to see through the deception. What would happen 
then was anyone's guess. 
 
Maxine Pruett glared at the holoscreen. "That conniving son of a bitch!" she 
shouted. The scene had only been in view for a moment, but she knew that face 
almost as well as the picture on a dollar bill. In all the years she'd been running the 
Syndicate on Lorelei, he was the one person who'd thwarted her. Captain Jester, 
AKA Willard Phule, the munitions heir. 
 

There he was on some planet a quarter of the way across the galaxy. She 

hadn't caught exactly what it was he was doing. In fact, she'd only had the news on 
out of a sense of guilt. Laverna had been her eyes and ears on the outside world, 
the one who kept her apprised of things that might affect her while she paid 
attention to running the business and enjoying the fruits of her hard-won (albeit ill-
gotten) gains. Now Laverna had run away from her, and she had nobody to 
monitor outside events for her. Phule was responsible for that, too. 
 

What she couldn't figure out was how he'd managed to get off-station 

without her knowing it. Her snoops had reported seeing him in the Fat Chance 
nearly every day, and there were plenty of uniformed legionnaires on guard-so 
what did it mean that he and his company were on Landoro, or whatever that place 
was in the news story? The answer must be that one of the Phules was a double. It 
made sense-there'd been times she'd had the "same" act booked in two or three of 
her casinos at once, with the star making token appearances in each show, and 
using doubles to make it appear he was onstage more than he really was. Phule 
must be running a hustle like that... 
 

So how was she going to take advantage of her discovery? There was no 

question that she was going to take advantage of it-you get an edge, you take it. 
That was how the game was played. It would be sweet revenge to finally take the 
Fat Chance away from him after all he'd done to balk her. 
 

A lot depended on which "Phule" was the impostor, of course. She wasn't 

about to make an overt move against him if he was actually here to counter it. 
She'd already had a lesson in the Legion's brand of hardball, and didn't want to 
repeat it. But if the fellow over in the Fat Chance was the double...well, that might 
be a very different story. 
 

It shouldn't be hard to figure it out. Phule could afford to hire somebody 

good enough to pass a fairly close inquisition. Still, there'd be things Phule hadn't 
briefed the double on, questions he wouldn't be able to answer if somebody caught 
him off his guard. She wouldn't even have to confront him in person. A phone call 
could tell her who she was dealing with, if she knew the right card to play. But she 
had to have the right card before she called. 
 

"Holo off," snapped Maxine. The picture abruptly winked out of existence, 

and the room fell silent. The holo hadn't used to interfere with Maxine's thinking, 
but that had been when she'd had Laverna to do a lot of that thinking for her. Now 
she realized that she'd been an idiot to buy Phule's line about his butler eloping 
with her assistant. Most likely he'd taken them both with him. Well, that wouldn't be 
hard to find out, either. And when she'd found them, there were favors she could 
call in. That was one of the advantages of running the Syndicate's favorite resort. 
She'd been generous with free rooms, free meals, special seats at shows for 
visitors from other Syndicate families-paying forward in anticipation of future need. 
Now it was payback time, in more ways than one. 
 

She tried to remember who she knew on that planet-what was its name 

again? She must not have been paying close enough attention. Well, if she turned 
the holo back on and watched another twenty minutes the news story would cycle 
back again. No-she hired people to do that. She'd order somebody to turn on the 
news and take notes while she figured out what to do about Phule. She picked up 
the comm handset and pressed a button. 
 

Unexpectedly, it didn't ring. Instead, after a few moments, a synthesized 

voice came on. "There is no answer at the extension you are calling. If you wish to 
leave a message, please wait until..." She broke the connection, cursing. She 
wasn't used to getting recorded messages, or waiting. What the hell was she 
paying these clowns for, if they weren't there when she needed them? That had 
never happened with Laverna. 
 

She thought a moment about trying another extension, then slammed the 

handset down. She felt like shaking things up, and she was going to start by finding 
the lazy goon who'd been supposed to answer that call and reminding him who 
was boss here. It had been a while since she'd had to do that, but she hadn't 
forgotten how. The guy on the other end wasn't likely to forget it, either, once she'd 
finished with him. She stepped toward the door, a grim smile on her lips. 
 

The door opened before she reached it. 

 

She stopped, astounded. Nobody else was supposed to be able to open 

that door. She was reaching for her weapon when a man stepped forward and 
said, "I wouldn't do that, Mrs. Pruett. We have the place surrounded, and the 
penalties for attacking a Federation agent are very severe." 
 

"Federation agent?" she gasped. She recovered her aplomb almost 

immediately. "What the hell are you doing in my private quarters? You're out of 
your jurisdiction. Lorelei law says I'm justified in blowing you away for breaking and 
entering. Get out before I do just that." 
 

"I'm afraid you're mistaken-this is my jurisdiction," said the man, and he 

flipped open a wallet to show a holo-ID. Below the letters IRS it read, Roger Peele, 
Special Agent. "The Federation allows localities a good bit of autonomy in criminal 
and civil law," said Peele solemnly. "But the tax code applies everywhere." 
 

"Tax code? You can't bust me for taxes," said Maxine. "I'm the one who 

called and tipped you off about the Fat Chance. It's those damned Legion crooks 
you should be after, not me." 
 

"We make our own decisions about whom to go after," said Agent Peele. 

"We are looking into the situation at the Fat Chance, and we will deal with it in our 
own time. Meanwhile, we have good reason to believe that you are systematically 
underreporting your income. I will ask you to come with me, Mrs. Pruett-we have 
quite a few questions to ask you." 
 

"I'm not answering any questions till I see my lawyer!" shouted Maxine. 

"Now get out of here before I call Security." 
 

"We have your lawyer and your security people already in custody," said the 

agent. "You can talk to them down at headquarters." He held out his hand, palm 
up. "Now, I suggest you surrender your weapon before you find yourself in even 
more serious trouble." 
 

Maxine cursed. But she handed over the weapon and went quietly. She'd 

owned a casino long enough to tell when her luck had run out. Today, it had come 
up snake eyes. 
 
General Blitzkrieg knew he was in trouble the minute he heard the commotion in 
his outer office. There was only one person with the chutzpa to charge into his 
office and demand to see him without an appointment. "I know he's in there, Major. 
Now, you can stand in my way and get run over, or you can step aside and let me 
in. Either way, I'm going to see him, whether he likes it or not." 
 

Blitzkrieg wished, not for the first time, that he had gotten an office with an 

emergency exit for these situations. But that would only postpone the inevitable. 
Like a trip to the dentist, this confrontation could be put off only at the price of 
worse pain later on. He pushed a button on his intercom and said, doing his best to 
sound nonchalant, "Major, no need to detain Colonel Battleax. Send her right in, if 
you will." It sounded phony even to him. 
 

The door opened and Colonel Battleax marched in. Through the open portal 

the general caught a glimpse of Major Sparrowhawk, whose expression indicated 
that she was no happier at being made the scapegoat for the delay than Colonel 
Battleax was at being made to wait. He was going to pay for both those mistakes, 
he realized. Sometimes he wondered what good being a general was if it afforded 
no protection from subordinates. 
 

"Good morning, sir," said Colonel Battleax. That was some small relief, he 

thought as he returned her very proper salute. At least she was going to observe 

the forms of military courtesy. Beyond that, he was unlikely to. find this a pleasant 
interview. 
 

"Have a seat, Colonel," he said, returning the salute. "To what do I owe the 

pleasure of your visit?" Keep up the fiction that you're glad to see her, he thought, 
and maybe she won't bite your head off this time. He didn't put much trust in that 
notion, though. 
 

Colonel Battleax settled into the chair facing Blitzkrieg's desk. "I've been 

watching the news, General," she said. "You've been pulling strings again." 
 

Blitzkrieg feigned surprise. "What are you referring to?" 

 

"A news story from Landoor. It seems there were shots fired at the 

spaceport, presumably by antigovernment rebels." 
 

"Landoor...that name is familiar..." 

 

"Of course it's familiar," said the colonel, losing patience. "You went horse-

trading to the Joint Chiefs to get a Legion company posted there as the 
peacekeeping force. You don't do that so often that you're likely to have forgotten 
it, unless you're getting senile even faster than anyone thought. You sent Phule's 
Company-Captain Jester's Company-to Landoor." 
 

"Why, yes, I suppose I did," said Blitzkrieg. "It seemed a feather in the cap 

for the Legion..." 
 

"Don't pull that guff on me, General," said Battleax. "Jester was a complete 

nonentity until he ordered that strafing on New Atlantis, as it was called then. 
You've taken his subsequent rise as a thorn in your side. Now you transfer him to 
the one place in the galaxy where there are people with a bigger grudge against 
him than yours. You expect me to believe this is unpremeditated?" 
 

"Why, yes...er, no..." Blitzkrieg turned red. "Damn it, Colonel, what are you 

getting at?" 
 

The colonel stood up and leaned forward over the general's desk. "General, 

it's time you realized that, whether or not you like Jester, he's a rising star. If you'd 
accepted that all along, the entire Legion would have gotten credit for everything 
he's done. Instead, he's the shining exception. I can't think of another Legion unit 
the Joint Chiefs would've been willing to put in such a sensitive position. Now if he 
falls on his face, he'll take the entire Legion down with him. You may not be able to 
see beyond your own nose, but those of us who can aren't going to let you get 
away with it." She glared at him, then straightened up and added as an 
afterthought, "With all due respect, sir." 
 

"This is preposterous," said the general. "I deny it all, of course." He was 

sweating. 
 

"Frankly, General, I didn't expect anything else," said Colonel Battleax. "If 

Jester comes a cropper on Landoor, there are some of us who will see that blame 
for it comes back to roost where it belongs. So I suggest you do whatever you can 
to insure that nothing untoward does happen to him." 
 

Blitzkrieg shrugged. "Really, Colonel, I don't see where this is any matter for 

great concern. A Legion captain ought to be able to take care of himself. If he can't, 
that's a pity, but ultimately no reflection on us." 

 

The colonel nodded, grimly. "Very well, sir, if that's how you intend to play 

the game, that's how it'll be played. Good day, sir." She saluted and left the office. 
 

Blitzkrieg leaned back in his chair. That hadn't gone so badly, he thought. 

Still, best to keep a closer eye on the Landoor situation. If Jester got in trouble 
there, he might be able to devise a way to burnish his own reputation by riding to 
the rescue. Yes, that might be a very satisfactory way to profit from his enemy's 
distress. He'd have to keep it in mind. 
 
"He's gone where?" Lieutenant Armstrong's disbelief was written plainly on his 
face. He'd just poured his first cup of coffee, so his normal stiff bearing hadn't quite 
had time to set in. 
 

"Here's the note he left with Mother," said Lieutenant Rembrandt, shoving a 

piece of paper at her fellow officer. "At least he left a note-I'd have liked it a lot 
more if he'd told us in person, though." 
 

"We'd have tried to talk him out of it, which is why he didn't ask us," said 

Armstrong, glancing up from the note. "He has Beeker and Rev along, I see. Do we 
have any idea where specifically they've gone?" 
 

"The rebel headquarters is somewhere on the mainland," said Rembrandt. 

She waved a hand vaguely. "We don't know exactly where. Mother couldn't find 
any intelligence reports on it. The captain had already asked her. I was glad to 
hear that-at least he didn't set out completely blind. But the rebels haven't been 
enough trouble to justify close surveillance, up until now." 
 Armstrong 

frowned. 

"No 

satellite intelligence?" 

 

"The satellite network here is pretty rudimentary," said Rembrandt, wearily. 

"The captain learned that when he was looking for that secret government project. 
There are a couple of old weather sats, dating back to the mining days, with add-
ons for GPS and communications. But nothing military." 
 

"Nothing? Didn't these people just have a war?" 

 

"Sure," said Rembrandt. She walked over to the coffee urn and topped up 

her cup. "But remember, with only one nation on this world, they didn't have an 
enemy to keep tabs on. When that civil war broke out, their economy had 
collapsed, and neither side had off-world allies. It was a low-tech war all around-no 
armor, no air force, no long-range missiles. And no intelligence sats. Even after the 
war, the Army peacekeeping team never took the rebels seriously enough to spend 
the money on sats." 
 

"Well, I guess we should be thankful for small favors," said Armstrong. "At 

least nobody's got enough firepower to overwhelm a single Legion company if they 
decide to start shooting. I guess that's an acceptable trade-off for the extra set of 
eyes." 
 

"I agree," said Rembrandt, adding a dash of cream to her coffee. "Except we 

still need to figure out where the captain's gone. If an emergency comes up, I want 
to talk to him before I do anything drastic." 
 

Armstrong looked up from his coffee cup. "I don't see how that's a problem," 

he said. "We can zero in on their wrist communicators, right? Or is there something 

else you haven't told me?" 
 

"You got it. Everybody except the captain left their communicators behind," 

said Rembrandt. "And he's turned his off. I think he didn't want the rebels to get 
their hands on advanced tech if they decided to take him prisoner. One 
communicator won't do them much good; they need two or more to get any 
advantage from them." 
 

"Rats," said Armstrong. "So we can't get in touch with the captain unless he 

initiates the contact." 
 

"That's the story," said Rembrandt. "We better hope that nothing happens 

until he decides to come back." 
 

"We better hope the rebels don't decide they've got a useful hostage on their 

hands," said Armstrong. 
 

"Yeah, I thought about that, too," said Rembrandt. She drained her coffee 

and set down the cup. "Maybe you better get over to the comm center and see if 
you and Mother can figure out some alternate way to track down the captain." 
 

Armstrong picked up his coffee cup and rose from his chair. "I'll get right on 

it," he said. "Let you know if I hear from him." 
 

"Right," said Rembrandt. She watched Armstrong leave, then turned to the 

day's schedule. She'd be running the company in the captain's absence-this time 
without even Beeker's help. There had better not be any emergencies while she 
was in charge. She expected to have her hands full finding the captain. 
 
They found the rebel base by following a bayou that led deep into the mainland, 
passing a little trading post, and turning up a broad jungle trail that rapidly became 
narrower as the lush vegetation closed in. Various stinging and biting insects 
closed in, as well. If the trail had been a bit better, it might have been possible to 
outrun them. As it was, the passengers spent half their time swatting pests. Phule 
wondered how the rebels managed to control the insects-or whether they simply 
put up with them as part of the price for their freedom. 
 

Okidata, who was acting as driver as well as guide, stopped the hoverjeep 

outside the camp. "I don't know what kind of electronics they have, but there must 
be something they can pick us up on," he said, slapping a mosquito. "From here on 
in, we're probably being watched." 
 

"I've been taking that for granted ever since we left our own base," said 

Phule, mopping his sweating brow. It was no exaggeration. Ever since the 
spaceport sniper had taken two shots at him, he'd assumed that every time he 
came outside Legion headquarters he might become a target again. So far, it 
hadn't happened. But up until now, he hadn't come strolling right up to the rebels' 
camp, either. Well, he ought to be all right as long as the rebels respected a flag of 
truce. If they respected it..."See if you can open up a comm connection," he said. 
"Might as well do what we can to keep from startling some trigger-happy sentry." 
 

"You folks already way too late for that," came a voice from surprisingly 

nearby. Phule looked up to see a large weapon pointed at him. Behind the weapon 
was a wiry, bearded man in jungle camouflage with a red bandanna headband. 

Closer inspection revealed that he was wearing gold hoop earrings to match a gold 
front tooth. "Guess you better put them hands up," the rebel added, almost as an 
afterthought. 
 

"Hey, take it easy-I'm on your side," said Okidata, indignantly. 

 

"I ain't got the time to figure that out right now," said the rebel. "Get them 

hands up and we'll settle it later." 
 

"We're here under a flag of truce," said Phule, reasonably. "Besides, our 

driver can't control the hoverjeep with his hands up." 
 

"I wouldn't put too fine a point on it, sir," said Beeker, raising his hands. "At 

the moment, the gentleman appears to be in a position to insist on his demands." 
 

"We ain't gonna worry about the hoverer," said the man with the gun. "Why 

don't you jes' get out so I don't have to worry 'bout you drivin' off all of a sudden? 
You don't wanna go makin' me jumpy, do you?" 
 

"I reckon not," said Rev, his hands high above his head. "Looky here, of 

buddy, don't shoot-I'm jes' gettin' out, like you asked." 
 

"That's a smart feller," said the rebel, nodding. He watched Rev get out, 

motioned him off to one side with the gun barrel, then said, "OK, next out-you with 
the bowler hat, there. Shake a leg." 
 

"Very well," said Beeker. "Please be careful where you point that weapon. 

I'm afraid my health insurance doesn't cover acts of war, and I fear that any injury I 
receive under these conditions might be construed as such." 
 

Two other armed rebels showed up while the man with the gun directed 

Phule and Okidata out of the hoverjeep. They gawked when they saw the Legion 
uniforms, but kept their weapons aimed at their captives, and managed to give the 
impression that they would fire if provoked. Nobody provoked them. When all four 
captives were standing together, hands raised, one of the newcomers whistled. 
"Whoo-ee, Buster, looks like you done made a real haul." 
 

"He certainly has," said Phule. "Now, if you want to make the most of it, I 

suggest you take us to your superior officers." 
 

"Suggestion noted," said Buster. He turned and spit into the underbrush, 

then said, "Durn if you ain't the fanciest bunch I seen in a while, though. Two of you 
in them black uniforms, and the other two wearin' their Sunday best, too. You all 
got the look of some kind o' face cards-what's your game, anyway?" 
 

"We've come here to help you win," said Phule. "Now, will you take us to 

your officers?" 
 

"Help us win?" said Buster, his eyes wide. "That's the damnedest 

proposition I've heard all month, and I keep some mighty strange company. What 
makes you think you can help us?" 
 

"This," said Phule, pointing to the leather pouch strapped around his waist. 

 

"Keep them hands up," said Buster. "What you got in there, anyway? If it's 

some kind of secret weapon, it's a mighty small one." 
 

"Nothing secret about it," said Phule. "But it's the one weapon every fighting 

force needs more than any other. Now, if you'll take me to your superior, maybe 
he'll let you stick around while I open it up and show him. If you don't delay us 

unnecessarily, I'll even put in a good word for you." 
 

Buster laughed. "The day I need a good word with the brass is gonna be a 

long time comin'. But I like your style, mister, so I'm gonna do what you say. This 
here vehicle oughta be safe right where it is. If you boys will just start walkin' along 
that trail, you ought to come to the camp in no time at all. Don't do anything rash, 
though-'cause I'll be right behind you." 
 

"Believe me, friend, coming here was as rash an act as I'm prepared to 

engage in for some time to come," said Beeker. "We'll be greatly obliged if you 
keep it in mind that we are here under a flag of truce." 
 

"I'll keep it in mind, long as nothin' happens to jar it out of my memory," said 

Buster. "Let's get a move on." 
 

They started off along the jungle trail. Behind them, Buster began to whistle 

a jaunty melody. Phule trudged along, his hands held high. Perspiration had begun 
to soak his uniform, and the jungle flies swarmed around his face. It was 
inconvenient not being able to swat the flies, but Buster and his men might 
misunderstand any sudden notions. Off to the side, there was a droning chorus of 
spooky sounds-indigenous animals, he assumed. Presumably the creatures 
weren't dangerous. At least, the rebels seemed to pay them no mind. Then again, 
the rebels were armed, and he wasn't. 
 

Faced with the reality of the jungle, Phule belatedly began to wonder if 

everything was going to be as easy as it had looked when he was planning it. If 
he'd miscalculated, he might have gotten himself in far worse trouble than he'd 
bargained for... 
 
 
 14 
Journal #410 
 

The first roller coaster on Landoor was built by an unemployed mining 

engineer, J.T. Dressage. Inspired by seeing youths in the mining towns taking 
daredevil rides on abandoned mine railroad cars, he purchased a quantity of track 
at salvage prices. Borrowing the money to buy a plot of land outside Landoor City, 
he built a ramshackle wooden trestle, and opened his ride-"the Daredevil." It 
caught the fancy of the public and, within a short time, Dressage had not only paid 
off his debts, but purchased fifty acres of adjacent land and expanded his operation 
to become the first of Landoor's theme parks. 
 

The success of Dressage Park caught the eyes of several small 

businessmen, who pooled their savings and set up a rival operation south of the 
city-Dunes Park, with an even wider range of rides and attractions. Within a few 
years, no Landooran considered a vacation complete without a visit to one of the 
Atlantis theme parks. Indeed, they were the first enterprises on the planet 
developed without the participation of the Moguls. They (and the smaller parks that 
sprang up in their wake) thus became an important symbol of national pride to the 
Landoorans-the working people to whom the Moguls were alien princes with no 
roots in their world. This image was confirmed when the Moguls decamped to 

greener pastures and left Landoor to the Landoorans. 
 

At that point, Landoor found itself with all the circuses it could ask for. But as 

they soon realized, there was a desperate shortage of bread. And therein lay the 
seeds of revolution... 
 
The trail took Phule's group and their guards on a mildly strenuous hike through 
dense, steaming jungle, in which the occasional Earth-origin tree or animal could 
be spotted. (The original settlers appeared to have brought along a fair supply of 
parrots-or possibly a few escaped breeding pairs had been sufficient to start a 
population explosion.) The contrast between the slightly purplish local foliage and 
the brighter green Terran-import leaves made the walk unusually picturesque-
although not quite enough so for Phule to stop worrying about his reception at 
trail's end. 
 

At last, the trail crossed a little stream on stepping stones, and on the other 

side was the guerilla camp. Phule thought to himself that the camp was completely 
vulnerable to an air attack. Given the government's manifest eagerness to put the 
rebels out of business, the fact that they hadn't done so was proof of how 
thoroughly they had been disarmed. 
 

There were a good number of two-person tents in camouflage colors-

obviously off-planet in origin, since the hues clashed with the local vegetation. 
Open cooking fires were scattered at intervals among them. Here and there were 
small groups of armed men and women, sitting on the ground or engaged in 
various tasks, from cooking to construction of larger, more permanent buildings. 
There was nothing resembling a consistent uniform, although many appeared to 
have adopted the red bandanna as a quasiofficial badge. 
 

Buster pointed to the center of the clearing, where a large tent stood next to 

an improvised pole bearing a colorful flag, different from the one flying over the 
government buildings: the rebel flag, no doubt. "That-a-way," he said. Phule and 
his group followed, drawing curious stares from the groups of rebels they passed 
on their way through the camp. 
 

The main tent had an awning protecting a folding table at which sat a lean 

man with a fringe of stringy gray hair beneath a field cap. He wore the closest thing 
to a real uniform that Phule had seen so far, although it bore no recognizable 
insignia. He looked up as Buster herded Phule and his companions into the shade 
of the tent. "Who's this?" he said, squinting at the newcomers. 
 

"Found 'em out in the woods," said Buster. "They drove right up in a 

hovercar, asked to see you. So here they are." 
 

"Have they been searched or questioned?" said the man, looking at the 

uniformed legionnaires. 
 

"Nah, they weren't showin' no hardware, so we just brought 'em in," said 

Buster. "Like I say, this guy in the front wanted to talk to you." 
 

"This is an inexcusable lapse in security," said the rebel leader-for that was 

obviously what he was. "If these men had been carrying concealed weapons..." 
 

"Oh, give us a break, will ya?" said Buster, with a sweeping gesture. "Look 

at these jaspers and tell me any of 'em has the brass to sneak in a weapon. Minute 
they pull it, they's gonna be buzzard meat even if they do get a few of us. They 
look like the suicidal type to you?" 
 

"Perhaps not, but we have security procedures for a reason," said the 

leader. "This is not the first time you have shown a lack of judgment..." 
 

"I think he showed excellent judgement in bringing us directly to you," Phule 

interrupted. "I think you will find what I have to say very interesting-and very much 
to your advantage." 
 

"And you are?" asked the rebel leader, glaring at Phule. 

 

"Captain Jester, Space Legion," said Phule, with a little nod. "With me is 

Chaplain Rev, as well as my chauffeur and my personal butler. And whom am I 
speaking to?" 
 

"A chauffeur and a butler, eh?" said the rebel leader. "And a chaplain, too. 

That's a first, for sure-most people who come looking for me bring along an infantry 
brigade or so." Belatedly, remembering that Phule had asked his name, he puffed 
up his chest and said, "I am Le Duc Taep, Provisional President of the Restored 
Republic of New Atlantis." 
 

"Ah, then I am speaking to the right man," said Phule. "Mr. President, I have 

come to show you how to win your revolution." 
 

"What did you say?" said Le Duc Taep. He looked at Phule's uniform again. 

"Aren't you from the peacekeeping team?" 
 

"That is correct. In fact, I am its commanding officer," said Phule, smiling 

broadly. 
 

"You!" Le Duc Taep rose to his feet and pointed at Phule, "You are the 

officer formerly known as Captain Scaramouche?" 
 

Phule's smile didn't waver. "Mr. President, perhaps you aren't familiar with 

our Legion traditions. A legionnaire's previous identity is unimportant. Even when a 
member has been..." 
 

"You are Scaramouche!" shouted Le Duc Taep. He turned to Buster and the 

guards and exclaimed, "Seize him!" 
 
"Salutations, Lieutenant Strongarm!" Flight Leftenant Qual came bouncing into 
Comm Central, located in the penthouse suite of the Landoor Plaza. 
 

Armstrong looked up from the printout he was scanning. "Good morning, 

Qual. What's the good word?" 
 

"If you mean news of Captain Clown, I am afraid the word is a bad one," 

said Qual. "Or no word at all, to be more exact. Have you received intelligence of 
him?" 
 

"Heard nothing," said Tusk-anini, stationed behind a bank of electronic 

intelligence monitors. "Best guess is rebels holding captain prisoner." 
 

"This comes of acting like the hero of some holodrama," said Armstrong. He 

slapped the printout down on the desktop with a degree of force that underscored 
his frustration. "Going out to find the rebel camp was like asking to be taken 
prisoner. We can only hope the rebels have sense enough to keep him alive. As 

long as he's alive, at least we've got a chance to rescue him." 
 

"Well spoken, Strongarm," said Qual. "With resources of this company, such 

should be within ready capability. But a clever plan must be made before 
commencing, no?" 
 

"Before even that, we have to figure out where the rebels are," said 

Armstrong. "Of course, the captain went squiring off without bothering to leave an 
itinerary. I suppose he went out and followed his nose, so maybe we could find 
them the same way. But even if we find their main camp, there's no guarantee the 
captain's there..." 
 

"No, but that a good place to start," said Tusk-anini. "We find rebel camp, 

then good chance we also find somebody know where captain is." 
 

"Tusk-anini speaks reason," said Qual, flashing his allosaurus grin. "You 

dispatch your best jungle scouts, and when you find the rebel camp, you will find 
Captain Clown." 
 

"Best jungle scouts," mused Armstrong. "Now there's a specialty we haven't 

had to identify before. The Gambolts would probably be good at that. Who else...?" 
 

"Yours truly was hatched and nurtured in an environment not dissimilar to 

this world's, I hasten to inform you," said Qual. "I would eagerly volunteer to direct 
such a hazarding, if you wish to make use of my native competencies." 
 

Armstrong rubbed his chin, then said, "I'd have to run that past Lieutenant 

Rembrandt-she's officially in command in the captain's absence. The question 
would be whether a foreign officer should lead Legion troops." 
 

"If Qual best for doing job, why he not do it?" asked Tusk-anini. 

 

Armstrong shook his head. "That's your problem, Tusk-anini: You've never 

really understood why we in the military have to do things a certain way..." 
 "Understand 

perfectly," 

grunted Tusk-a-nini. "Too polite to say what think 

about it." 
 

"I admire your support, Voltonish friend," Qual said, grinning. "But 

Lieutenant Strongarm is correct. Shackle of command must be followed. We shall 
request approval of this plan from Lieutenant Rembrandt. Perhaps, though, it is 
best to approach her with a fully realized stratagem. Oh Layer-of-Eggs, do our 
computers indicate which legionnaires are from planets similar to this in terrain?" 
 

"aghidpgtie," said Mother, who had been doing her best to ignore the 

presence of others in her work area until addressed directly. But she began 
punching search parameters into her keyboard, and soon Qual and Armstrong 
were working on the tentative rescue plan. It was a wild idea, even for the Omega 
Mob, but as he reviewed the plan, Armstrong began to think it might work... 
 
"What are you waiting for?" shouted Le Duc Taep, pointing at Phule. "Seize him!" 
There was a stunned moment of silence in the rebel camp. 
 

"Uh, do you mean that like literally, Taep?" said Buster, scratching his 

jawbone below the right ear. "We pretty much got him in hand, y'know. You want 
us to hog-tie him or somethin'?" 
 

"Secure him so he can't escape, you idiots!" shouted Le Duc Taep, stepping 

around the folding table. "This man is one of the greatest enemies of the 
revolution!" 
 

The guards raised their weapons, suddenly looking alert. Buster stepped 

over and put a hand on Phule's shoulder. "Don't you or your friends try nothing 
funny, OK? If Taep's tellin' the truth, you might be in a good bit o' trouble." 
 

"I fail to see how that's so," said Phule, returning Le Duc Taep's gaze. "Even 

if I admitted being Captain Scaramouche-which I haven't-my position within the 
Federation peacekeeping force gives me diplomatic immunity. It would be very 
unwise to interfere with me in the course of my duties." 
 

"Unwise?" said Le Duc Taep. He sneered. "There is wisdom, and there is 

satisfaction. I mean to have my satisfaction, and whatever follows I will take in 
stride." 
 

"Now, just a minute, Taep," said Buster, leaning on the butt of his weapon. 

"Your satisfaction is dandy, but so far I ain't heard what's in it for the grunts. Say 
we execute this bird, and the Federation sends in a battle cruiser to vamp on us. 
What do the kids out there get in the way of satisfaction while they're dodgin' the 
assault lasers and pocket nukes?" 
 

"They will have helped punish the greatest enemy of New Atlantis!" replied 

Le Duc Taep, but some of the bluster had gone out of his voice. 
 

"Really?" said Buster. The way he said it, the word rhymed with silly. He 

paused before continuing. "Seems to me there's a few guys sittin' in Government 
House back in Landoor City that fill them shoes better than this here fella. Then 
again, maybe he has done somethin' worth risking that battle cruiser for to get back 
at him. But you still ain't told us what it is." 
 

"That's right, Taep," said a guard, and another chimed in with, "Yeah, what's 

he done?" 
 

Le Duc Taep pointed at Phule. "This is the man who ordered the scurrilous 

attack on the peace conference, further humiliating us at the moment of our 
capitulation!" 
 

"Oh, yeah, I heard about that," said Buster. "You and the other brass got 

your pants singed pretty good, didn't you?" He turned to Phule. "He tellin' the 
truth?" 
 

"Well..." Phule began, "I think I should point out that nobody was killed..." 

 

Rev put his hand on Phule's shoulder. "Y'know, there's more to this situation 

than meets the eyeball." 
 

"What say?" said Buster, frowning. "Seems to me, either he done it or he 

didn't." 
 

"He did do it," said Le Duc Taep, his confidence returning. "Otherwise, he'd 

simply deny it." 
 

"You got a good point there," said Buster. "But let me hear this other bird's 

point he's tryin' to make." 
 

"Why, thank ye, sonny," said Rev. "What I'd like to say here is, a fellow can 

be different things, and what he used to be ain't necessarily as important as what 
he is. You go holdin' the past against him, you might be missin' a glorious 

opportunity right now." 
 

"You still talkin' over my head," said Buster, scratching his jaw again. "Taep, 

you got any idea what he's sayin'?" 
 

"What he's saying is that whatever I did or didn't do back during the peace 

conference-and I really don't think we have to rake over those coals again-I can 
make up for it now," said Phule. "My orders are to bring peace to this world-they 
don't say one word about who governs it. It might as well be you as the other 
fellow. So I'm going to help you win." 
 

"That's big talk," said Buster, solemnly. "Win the war for us just like that? I 

gotta hear this." 
 

"If you're going to try to buy forgiveness..." Le Duc Taep began. 

 

"Yes, of course, what else?" said Phule. He reached down and opened up 

his belt pouch. He pulled out a handful of banknotes in large denominations. "I 
know money can't buy everything, but that's no reason to turn up your nose at it. 
Let's put the proposition in a nutshell. You can win your revolution, and I'm going to 
show you how to do it. Are you game?" 
 

Le Duc Taep looked at the money, then looked back at Phule. "And what's 

to stop us from taking your money and our revenge both at the same time?" 
 

Phule shrugged. "Oh, money's not hard to get, if you have the knack. You 

could raise this much yourself in a few days, if you put your mind to it. Of course, 
this is a drop in the bucket, compared to what you'd need. And I'm willing to back 
you to the limit." 
 

"You'll buy us all the weapons we need to win the war?" said Le Duc Taep, 

obviously impressed. 
 

"Oh, you won't need weapons," said Phule. "I'd hardly waste my money on 

that. What I'm going to do is show you how to win without firing a shot. Here's what 
you're going to need..." 
 

As Phule outlined his plan, the rebel leader began to nod his head. Le Duc 

Taep and Buster-evidently a very senior officer in the guerilla band-interrupted from 
time to time with questions. Soon Phule had laid out a sheet of paper on the folding 
table and started making sketches. The afternoon wore on... 
 
"Yo, Remmie, you gotta let us in on this rescue operation," said Do-Wop. 
 

Lieutenant Rembrandt looked up from her drawing pad at Do-Wop and 

Sushi. Even now, with command of the entire company thrust upon her, she made 
herself take a few minutes to keep her eyes sharp. It gave her a way to sidestep 
the worry about what kind of trouble the captain had gotten into, this time. "No," 
she said. 
 

"Whattaya mean?" said Do-Wop. "We got a right to volunteer, don't we?" 

 

"Sure, you've got a right to volunteer," said Rembrandt, putting aside the 

drawing pad. "But I've got to choose a team I think will do the job without getting 
anybody killed-and I mean the captain, in particular. You two don't fit the mission 
specs, this time." 
 

"Why not?" said Do-Wop. "We're as slick as you've got-even the captain 

knows that. Besides, we owe him-nobody else ever cut us half the breaks the 
captain has." 
 

"Well, I'm glad you appreciate that," said Rembrandt. "I know you two are 

slick-God, are you ever stick-but you're not jungle scouts, and that's what we need 
this time." 
 

Do-Wop snickered. "I ain't worried about the jungle. You drop me down 

anywhere on this planet, I'll be the baddest thing for a hundred kilometers." 
 

Rembrandt shook her head. "The answer is no. There'll be plenty of other 

missions..." 
 

"Not if these guys don't rescue the captain," said Sushi. "What are they 

going to do, anyway? Rush in and start shooting? Or maybe something smart, like 
trying to persuade the rebels to let him go? That's about the only way I can think of 
to make sure the captain doesn't get hurt. You'll admit we're the only ones who 
could do that. We can sell sneakers to snakes, if you give us the chance." 
 

"What's a snake?-oh, never mind, I get the idea," said Lieutenant 

Rembrandt. She stood up and planted a finger in the center of Sushi's chest. 
"Maybe you can, but that's not the point. This team's going out in the jungle. They'd 
spend so much time bailing you two out of trouble they'd never get around to 
rescuing the captain." 
 

Sushi didn't budge. "They're still going to need somebody like us at the other 

end," he said. "What about this-the jungle scouts find the captain, then you send us 
in to negotiate? Once we know our goal, you can send us by hovercar, if you want. 
That way you don't have to worry about all the jungle thingies getting us." 
 

"I ain't scared of no jungle thingies," Do-Wop reiterated. 

 

"I'm sure you're not, which is another good reason you're not going to be a 

jungle scout," said Rembrandt. Do-Wop opened his mouth to protest, but she held 
up a hand and continued, "Sushi's idea has some merit, I have to admit. But I'm not 
going to give a thumbs-up until I know where the captain's being held. Until then I 
don't even know whether he needs rescuing, let alone what the best plan will be. 
Maybe it's sending you in to bamboozle the rebels or going in with force or 
something else we haven't thought of yet. The one thing I do know is that you're 
not going out in the jungle. Get used to it." 
 

"Well, Lieutenant, I think you're being too cautious," said Sushi. "But if you 

promise you'll keep my plan in mind, we'll let you get back to work. And thanks for 
listening." 
 

"I won't forget your plan," said Rembrandt. "No other promises, though. 

Now, aren't you two supposed to be on duty someplace?" 
 

"Uh, like Soosh said, we'll let you get back to work," said Do-Wop, and the 

two legionnaires, beat a hasty retreat. Rembrandt sighed and reached for her 
sketchpad again. Sushi had given her a potentially useful idea. She'd have to think 
about a way to make it work... 
 

"Lieutenant, got to talk," came a familiar voice. "Rebels holding captain 

prisoner. Got to be on team rescuing him." 
 

Rembrandt sighed. "Tusk-anini, I don't remember anything in your file about 

you coming from a jungle world," she said. She began to suspect that she was 
going to have a lot of discussions like the one just concluded in the time before the 
jungle team set out. 
 
Eventually, Armstrong and Rembrandt cobbled together a two-stage mission for 
rescuing Phule. First Qual and the Gambolts would use their skills to find the rebel 
camp at which Phule was presumably being held prisoner, and report its location to 
base. If Quals report convinced the officers that Phule actually needed rescuing, a 
fighting force of volunteers would go in to do the job. 
 

After dark, a hoverjeep swooped low over the waves and put Qual's team 

ashore on the mainland in the area in which the rebel camp was rumored to be 
located. The Zenobian and the three Gambolts melted into invisibility almost before 
they had reached the dark line of brush a few dozen yards above the high-tide 
mark on the sand. As soon as they were out of sight, the hoverjeep turned back to 
the island, and the Legion base. 
 

Qual watched from the shadows, then turned to the Gambolts. "Now we 

travel softly," he said to them, and they nodded; Qual's dark-adapted vision 
registered the nods, as theirs registered his silent "follow me" gesture. They 
followed. 
 

They were travelling light, planning to live off the land rather than slow 

themselves with unnecessary food and equipment. All were from hunting races, 
and experiment had proven that they could eat the native wildlife as well as the 
earthling species introduced by the original settlers. The Gambolts, in fact, were 
especially fond of nutria. When Escrima first offered that dish on the Legion menu, 
Duke had sampled it and said approvingly, "It tastes much like rodent-but of 
unusual size." The others had nodded. Brandy, who overheard the compliment, 
had very carefully made sure it did not get back to Escrima-at least, not accurately 
translated. 
 

At first the team followed a broad stream that took them west and north into 

the interior. Qual set a rapid pace, and the Gambolts followed him easily. Toward 
midnight, they came to a natural-looking log bridge across the stream, with a 
narrow game trail leading off in either direction. They examined both banks for 
traces of human passage. 
 

"The odor of humans is stronger to the left," murmured Garbo. "There must 

be a settlement in that direction." She lashed her tail in involuntary excitement. 
 

Qual pulled out a map and examined it. "The humans' chart does not 

illustrate a town in this vicinity," he said after a moment. "However, there are 
shown a few trappers' camps, and a trading post that seems more continuous." 
 

"I smell too many humans for a camp or trading post," said Garbo. "But 

perhaps they hunt in large packs, like the goulfes of our world." 
 

Dukes and Rube nodded their agreement. "There are males and females 

both," Rube added, wriggling his nose. 
 

"Do their trappers hunt in mixed-sex groupings?" asked Qual. "Our people 

hunt alone, so I cannot judge humans by our customs." 

 

"Their military mixes the sexes, as ours does. Perhaps they hunt together as 

well," said Garbo. "If we moved closer, perhaps we could distinguish the captain's 
scent." 
 

"Gazma's tail! I find it quaint that such a meagerly toothed species hunts at 

all," said Qual, with a grin that brought a feline gurgle of amusement from the 
Gambolts. "We shall do as Garbo suggests and explore the trail to the left." 
 

They set off into the darkness again. Along toward dawn, they surprised a 

small, leaping creature; Rube captured it before it took two bounds, and they 
breakfasted quickly before moving along. Ahead, the scent of humans grew 
stronger. 
 
Lieutenant Rembrandt was toweling off from her morning shower when her 
communicator alarm went off. She dropped the towel and picked up the 
communicator. "Rembrandt here," she said. "What's cooking, Mother?" 
 

"Hot stuff, Remmy," came the saucy voice. "Our little lizard wizard and the 

three pussycats have found the rebel camp, and the captain's there." 
 

"Is the captain free or a prisoner?" asked Rembrandt. 

 

Mother paused before saying "Well, honey, that's the tricky part. You know 

how Qual talks kind of strange..." 
 

"Great Gazma, do I ever!" said Rembrandt, laughing. Then her voice turned 

sharper. "What are you telling me, Mother?" 
 

"Well, they found the captain. But they only saw him for a moment before 

they set off some kind of alarm. A patrol came out looking for them and they had to 
skedaddle. So they didn't see enough to figure out whether he's free. Qual said 
one of the rebels was always there with a gun, but that doesn't prove Cap's a 
prisoner, does it?" 
 

"Not necessarily, no," said Rembrandt. "Damn-now I realize it was a mistake 

not to have sent at least one human in the scout party. Then we'd have a better 
idea whether the captain was under duress. Now I've got to read a Zenobian's 
mind to decide whether to send the rescue party or stay clear." 
 

Mother's voice cut through her spoken-aloud thoughts. "Any orders, 

Remmie? I've got other calls coming in." 
 

Rembrandt answered without hesitation, "If one of them's Qual, patch him 

straight through to me. If not, keep trying to raise him. And put the rescue team on 
alert. I want them ready to go on a moment's notice. I'll be over to Comm Central 
as soon as I get my uniform on." 
 

"Ooooh, should I send somebody over with a camera?" 

 

Rembrandt chuckled. "Not if you want the camera back in one piece," she 

said. "Remember, hook me up right away if you get Qual. Rembrandt out." She 
grabbed the towel again and finished dressing in a hurry. 
 
"Sir, I am concerned that you have not communicated with Headquarters," said 
Beeker, coming into the tent assigned to him and his employer. "If I were your 
lieutenants, I would be concerned about your safety."